


Getting an Education

by breathtaken



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Author's Favorite, Canon Era, Catholic Guilt, Community: bbcmusketeerskink, Explicit Sexual Content, F/M, Fruit, Misusing Fruit, Multi, Polyamory, Sex Education, Teaching/Learning Kink, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-24
Updated: 2014-10-03
Packaged: 2018-02-10 05:47:09
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 22,924
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2013354
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/breathtaken/pseuds/breathtaken
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>In the privacy of his own head, d'Artagnan's willing to admit that he does resent Aramis his apparent success with women. Not for his powers of seduction – d’Artagnan can’t imagine wanting any woman but Constance, not ever – but for his skills in the bedroom, which even in his short time in Paris d’Artagnan has heard spoken of in hushed tones enough times to realise the extent of his brother’s reputation, in which he seems to take nothing more than a (mostly) quiet pride.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>Aramis must have satisfied scores of women, while d’Artagnan cannot even satisfy the one woman he loves.</i>
</p><p>
  <i>What does Aramis know, that he doesn’t?</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Fill for [this](http://bbcmusketeerskink.dreamwidth.org/774.html?thread=38406%20) kink meme prompt.
> 
> In the 1600s, the dominant religious and social message in Western Europe was that sex was for procreation, and procreation only. Any sex acts other than penis-in-vagina were considered sinful (and confusingly for us today, were often categorised as ‘sodomy’), and even sexual positions were regulated by the Catholic Church. In this fic I’ve tried to balance historical accuracy with modern licence in order to give a rollicking good time for all, but without losing that 17th century feel. ;)

D’Artagnan brackets his arms either side of Constance’s head as he thrusts into her, one hand tangling in her curls, biting his lip and concentrating frantically on keeping his movements slow and regular, determined that this time, it’s going to be right.

 _Not long now_ , he promises the persistent tightness in his balls, even though in truth he’s got no way of knowing if it’s good for her, if it’s _enough_.

 _It must be enough though, it_ has _to be –_ he doesn’t know what more he could do, he’s already panting with desire, sweat breaking out on his forehead and his limbs beginning to tremble, and his mounting orgasm feels like liquid fire in his belly, ready to burn through his veins any second now whether he likes it or not.

“Oh!” Constance exclaims suddenly, eyes meeting his, the gasp rushing out of her bright and sharp and surprised; and d’Artagnan thinks, _yes, yes,_ and kisses her furiously as he comes inside her with a rush, spilling his groan into her waiting mouth and collapsing against her for a moment, utterly sated.

It’s not until he leans back to grin at her with triumphant joy that he realises her expression is not the satisfaction he was expecting at all, but instead is something closer to frustration; and her soft moan of disappointment as he slides out of her has his mood crashing back down as quickly and thoroughly as it had risen.

“Was that it?” he asks anyway as he drapes himself over her side, a small part of him still stubbornly hopeful despite the rapidly mounting evidence to the contrary.

Constance’s mouth twists, as if she can’t quite bring herself to break it to him; and d'Artagnan sighs, pressing a kiss to her jaw.

“It was definitely better,” she replies, in a tone that’s deliberately upbeat, reaching out for his hand and entwining their fingers. “I really felt something this time, just about here.” She moves their joined hands to pat low on her stomach, just above where the thatch of reddish-brown curls begins. “It was just starting to get really good.”

D’Artagnan tries valiantly not to let his own disappointment show on his face, but he’s pretty sure it’s a losing battle.

_Just starting to get good._

And he _really_ thought he’d made her come this time.

It’s not Constance’s fault at all; it’s probably all his, but he doesn’t know what else he can do to make it better, short of schooling himself to last longer and just hoping for the best, and it’s _frustrating_.

He wants her to enjoy this as much as he does, after all.

And, God willing, he wants to be able to give her a child.1

“I’m sorry,” he replies, kissing her again, slowly and carefully, as though he can show the proof of his remorse with lips and tongue – just as an idea occurs to him.

“Perhaps we could try – something else?”

Constance frowns up at him – curious, but not wary, d’Artagnan decides; which is good, because he really doesn’t know how she’s going to take this.

“What did you have in mind?”

“I could touch you,” he replies, letting his voice fall quiet and suggestive – “ _there_ , with my fingers. What do you think?”

As she stares back at him, curiosity warring with reticence on her face, he moves his hand down to lightly cup the mound between her legs; and can’t help smiling at the tiny gasp it causes, little more than a rush of air. He hopes she’ll at least be willing to try, that she won’t think he’s a pervert or a sinner for wanting something that feels good for its own sake, without the potential to create life.

He can feel the beginnings of wetness under his fingers, and longs to slip back inside her again, where she’s hot and tight.

“Alright,” Constance whispers, as if she’s worried that Father Michaud might overhear; the nervous expression on her face giving way to a determination that makes d’Artagnan’s heart swell, even as his cock gives another twitch of interest.

He circles the tip of her entrance with one finger, wondering at the way it makes her whole body tense and her gaze lose focus. “Are you sure?”

Constance nods hurriedly. “Touch me,” she blurts out, as if she can’t quite believe her own daring.

He watches her carefully as he pushes his finger fully inside, silently marvelling at the soft wetness, the smooth walls of flesh pressing against him, everything so much more intense under his fingertips, and sees how her eyes widen; but she doesn’t yet make another sound.

“Relax,” he murmurs against her lips, “and just tell me if it feels good.”

“I’ll try,” she replies, with a small smile; and as he pulls slowly out before inching in a second finger alongside the first, it does make her gasp, short and shocked, and he can feel her stretching around his knuckles, slick and inviting.

He starts to thrust his fingers in and out of her, mimicking the movements of his cock; but she’s quiet and she isn’t quite looking at him as her hand grips his hipbone, and he can tell it’s not having the desired effect.

“How is it?” he prompts.

“I’m sorry,” she replies, with a small, guilty smile, looking him carefully in the face once more. “It’s just not the same. I think maybe it does need to be your…” she looks significantly down the bed.

“Then we’ll just have to keep practising,” d’Artagnan replies generously, with a lightness he doesn’t really feel, kissing her thoroughly to try and push away his disappointment.

Though he normally loves watching Constance dress almost as much as watching her undress, loves to help her lace her bodice and put up her hair, as he pulls his own clothes back on he’s almost ignoring her in his preoccupation; his thoughts instead full of the women he’s known before her, racking his brains to try and figure out whether the solution to their problems is already hidden in his memories.

Cécile had been his first, back in Gascony; and she had been no older than he, and no more experienced. He remembers kissing her, touching her lean body through her light summer dress and marvelling at its shape, before laying her down on a hay bale in her father’s stables, lifting her skirts and sheathing himself inside her with a gasp. He remembers that it had hurt her at first, and she had bled; but she seemed to enjoy it after that, though he doesn’t think she climaxed. He’s not even sure he knew then that women _could._

And then there was Milady, and she had shocked him with her boldness and her moans of ecstasy as she pushed him down to the mattress and rode him to her own completion, as he glimpsed something wild and loose inside her that he instinctively wanted more of; even after she’d framed him for murder, even with all that followed.

He knows now that she’d used him, and yet he still finds himself a believer in the truth of her passion, if nothing else. But as he thinks back, it seemed like that same passion was already inside her as she writhed in his arms, snaking a hand down between their bodies as if she knew something he didn’t, and he’d only been incidental to it. He certainly wouldn’t know what to do to find in Constance that same level of abandon.

It’s only then he remembers that he’s not the only one who wasn’t innocent when they met; and that Constance probably knows more of sexual congress than he does, if her five years of marriage are anything to go by.

“Constance.” He turns back, breeches half-buttoned, to see her readjusting her shift, laying out her bodice on the blankets, ready for him to help her into. “Do you –”

“Mm?”

He hesitates; clears his throat a little. While he tries never to mention Bonacieux at all if he can avoid it, it’s been _weeks_ now, weeks of them laying together almost every day that’s permitted,2 and he’s not sure how much longer he can just wait and hope that it’ll get better for her.

“Have you ever been satisfied – you know, _before?_ ”

As he asks the question, d’Artagnan realises he doesn’t know whether he wants her to answer yes or no. He isn’t sure which would be worse.

He breathes an internal sigh of relief as Constance screws up her face in disgust. “God, no,” she replies vehemently. “I just… endured it, really, as a marital duty. Even though I wanted a child, I still couldn’t bring myself to _want_ him to satisfy me.” Her expression softens then, lips curving into a shy smile. “It wasn’t until I met you that I realised I might actually quite like the idea.”

D’Artagnan beams back at her, unable to stop the swell of pride he feels every time he’s compared to Bonacieux and comes out on top; but his good mood deflates again pretty quickly once he remembers that he still hasn’t actually managed it.

Constance sees it immediately, of course; and as she holds her bodice around herself and he steps forward to do up the laces, she catches his wrist. “We’ll get the hang of it soon, I’m sure,” she reassures him. “Everything gets better with practice.”

“Definitely,” d’Artagnan replies, leaning over to kiss her again; though what he really thinks is, _I hope so._

 

* * *

 

He’s still mulling it over a few mornings later, sitting in the garrison courtyard waiting for his day to start, though by now his thoughts have degenerated more into repetitive brooding rather than any useful consideration. He’s come up with no better idea than just giving it time and hoping for the best, and all he wants now is for Aramis to hurry the hell up and get here so they can get moving, and he can at least think about something else for a few hours.

Aramis has been consistently late for the past few days; and today he’s late enough that Athos has already been to see Tréville to get their orders for the day and come back again, and is now sitting statue-still at the table beside d’Artagnan, managing to project a sour disapproval that washes over Porthos and d’Artagnan in steady waves, even though his face never changes.

D’Artagnan secretly hopes he’ll be like Athos one day. Although preferably without the tragic past and the murderous ex-wife who keeps turning up and trying to kill him.

“You’ve decided to join us, then,” Athos suddenly calls out in the direction of the gate; and d’Artagnan turns to see Aramis – finally – striding over to their little group with a distinct spring in his step, smiling as brightly as midsummer.

“My apologies, Athos.” He gives a silly little bow, which doesn’t even net him a raised eyebrow; Athos is in a _truly_ bad mood, then. “I’m afraid you would have to take it up with a certain lady of my acquaintance. I’m surprised she let me leave at all.”

Porthos snorts. “Enthusiastic for your company, was she?”

“You have no idea, my friend.” Aramis leans over and stage-whispers, “ _Three times_ , just this morning.”

D’Artagnan blinks in confusion. The sun’s not been up an hour, and Aramis has managed to spend three times? He can’t believe it. He can barely spend three times a _day._

No, he must be missing something here.

He looks back to Athos, who appears to be valiantly pretending he hasn’t heard. “If you’re not on time tomorrow, Aramis, _you_ will have to take it up with Tréville. We’re to escort the Archbishop of Sens to Saint-Germain this morning, and I doubt His Excellency will appreciate being kept waiting.”

Aramis bows his head contritely. “For his Excellency, I shall make haste,” he replies solemnly, leaning over to grab a chunk of bread from the table; it’s the closest to an apology that d’Artagnan has ever heard from him.

They all saddle up quickly, and Aramis spends the entire journey to Saint-Germain riding behind with Porthos, either to relay more tales of his improbable morning or to keep himself out of the radius of Athos’ wrath; and so d’Artagnan finds himself up front with their firmly silent leader, who’s surveying the road ahead, face as impenetrable as a fortress.

D’Artagnan would normally have tried to engage Athos in a little conversation, at least; but today he finds that his thoughts are of a distinctly more personal nature, and he’s glad to be left alone with them.

In the privacy of his own head, he’s willing to admit that he does resent Aramis his apparent success with women. Not for his powers of seduction – d’Artagnan can’t imagine wanting any woman but Constance, not ever – but for his skills in the bedroom, which even in his short time in Paris d’Artagnan has heard spoken of in hushed tones enough times to realise the extent of his brother’s reputation, in which he seems to take nothing more than a (mostly) quiet pride.

Aramis must have satisfied scores of women, while d’Artagnan cannot even satisfy the one woman he loves.

What does Aramis know, that he doesn’t?

Could he _ask_ him?

The moment d’Artagnan thinks of it, it’s so immediately obvious that he wants to kick himself for not having thought of it sooner.

It’s a brilliant idea, he decides. Aramis will help him, of course he will – he’s his brother, after all, and d’Artagnan knows him well enough by now to know just how fully he believes in the joy of pleasure. And even though it will undoubtedly be a bit embarrassing to admit the extent of his ignorance, d’Artagnan is sure Aramis will understand. After all, there must have been a time before he knew everything he’s learned.

D’Artagnan likes to think he’s man enough to know when he needs help, and there’s truly nobody better to ask.

It still seems like a good idea when their party arrives at Saint-Germain, and escort His Excellency into the residence to take tea with the King; and it’s a stroke of luck that d’Artagnan ends up standing beside Aramis at one end of the long terrace, Athos having taken Porthos by the arm and steered him firmly to the opposite side (and to the shade there), presumably to prevent any more of the meaningful looks and suppressed chuckles that d’Artagnan has already seen passing between Aramis and Porthos.

Unfortunately, this has left d’Artagnan standing with Aramis in full sun; and he resists the temptation to mop his brow, wondering if it’s just unfortunate or if Athos truly is punishing Aramis by making him stand here, and whether that makes d’Artagnan collateral damage.

But they’re far enough from the royal party not to be overheard, which is the most important thing; and d’Artagnan’s going to ask him now, before he loses his nerve.

He turns slightly to the side, so that he can speak out of the corner of his mouth without anyone seeing his lips move; he remembers that it was Aramis who taught him this trick, and it’s that that banishes the final doubts from his mind.

“Would you ride back with me?” he murmurs. “I want to ask you something.”

Aramis doesn’t look over at him, just gives the slightest of nods to show that he’s understood; and risking a proper glance at his companion, d’Artagnan notices that the curls at the nape of Aramis’ neck are damp with sweat.

He looks back quickly, feeling inexplicably guilty, as if he’s seen something he shouldn’t have.

From the other side of the terrace, he registers that Athos is staring straight at them.

D’Artagnan swallows, and straightens his spine, letting his eyes lose focus as he prays that the King and the Archbishop find they actually have very little to discuss after all, before retiring inside for the rest of the day, where it’s cooler.

 

* * *

 

“D’Artagnan.” Aramis rides up beside him as soon as they’re clear of the royal residence, leaning over expectantly. “You wanted to ask me something?”

D’Artagnan swallows. He supposes it _was_ too much to hope for, that Aramis would have forgotten.

They were on that blazing hot terrace for what must have been two hours in the end, and it was more than enough time for d’Artagnan to decide that actually, this is a terrible idea and he never should have said anything.

Still, it’s too late to back out now.

 _I’m doing this for Constance,_ he reminds himself, as he lets his horse drop back from Athos and Porthos, until they’re just out of hearing range, Aramis sticking smoothly alongside him. _For our happiness._

Porthos looks curiously back at the two of them, and then shrugs to himself, as if deciding he doesn’t care after all. Athos appears to still be pretending Aramis doesn’t exist.

D’Artagnan wishes his tongue would stop sticking to the roof of his mouth. It’s going to make talking difficult.

“Yes,” he replies, with only a little difficulty. “About – women.”

He risks a glance at Aramis, expecting a joke at his expense; but Aramis is just regarding him steadily, expression as neutral as if d’Artagnan had just offered his opinion on the state of today’s weather.

“And what can I help you with in that respect?” Aramis asks pleasantly, only meeting his eyes for a moment before his gaze returns to the horizon.

_Well, here goes nothing._

“How do you know when you’ve…” d’Artagnan tightens his grip on his reins, ignoring the way his hands are sweating in his gloves – “satisfied a woman?”

He doesn’t know what he’s expecting, but all Aramis does is make a little, “Ah,” sound and raise his eyebrows, before manoeuvring his horse just a touch closer to d’Artagnan’s.

“Well,” he continues after a moment, “in my experience, the lady in question will make it known, rather unmistakeably. I’m assuming that’s not quite the case here.”

At least Aramis is tactful enough to adhere to d’Artagnan’s pretence that they’re speaking entirely hypothetically.

“She’s not sure either,” d’Artagnan mumbles.

“Well, I can definitely provide some suggestions,” Aramis replies – and at least he’s being sympathetic, his usual mockery of d’Artagnan for being young and inexperienced nowhere in evidence, for which d’Artagnan decides he’s impossibly grateful. “But, if you’ll forgive my indelicacy… I will need to have some sort of an idea of what you’ve been trying so far.”

D’Artagnan frowns. “The… usual?”

“Alright… let me rephrase. How did you learn about lovemaking? Who taught you?”

D’Artagnan gives him a look which says, _how do you think?_ “I grew up on a farm.”

“Okay, _farm boy_ , you know the mechanics. What about the _art_?”

D’Artagnan’s confusion is apparently showing plainly on his face, as Aramis suddenly turns a wolfish grin on him that makes him feel distinctly nervous, before reaching over to pat him on the arm. “I think we’ve got a lot of work to do,” he says, sounding far too pleased with himself for d’Artagnan’s liking.

Fortunately they’re interrupted at that moment by a shout from ahead, where Porthos has twisted round in his saddle to look at them, and d’Artagnan realises he’s dropped back from the others a little more than he meant to.

“Are you two coming or what?”

Aramis, damn him, actually _winks_ at d’Artagnan before shouting back, “Not before we’re ready!”

D’Artagnan urges his horse quickly forward to rejoin the others, briefly wishing the ground would swallow him up.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 During the Middle Ages there was a widespread belief that both men and women needed to orgasm (preferably simultaneously) in order to conceive a child.  
> 2 The Catholic Church only permitted husbands and wives to have sex on certain days.  
> ([source](http://www.likesbooks.com/medevil3.html))


	2. Chapter 2

D’Artagnan had been twitchy and impatient for the rest of the day, half-expecting that as soon as they were dismissed, Aramis would take him by the arm and steer him off to somewhere private for an undoubtedly frank and probably embarrassing conversation about the secrets of the female body; so he was surprised when as they left the garrison at twilight, Aramis only leaned over to clap him on the arm and say in a confidential undertone, “I’ll let you know when it’s time for your first lesson,” before bidding them all good evening and disappearing into the dusk.

Unfortunately for him, d’Artagnan’s never been very good at being kept in suspense; and Aramis’ somewhat vague promise of future enlightenment only left him plenty of time to worry about what exactly he’s let himself in for. After all, he’d just expected a quarter-hour of friendly advice, maybe some rough pointers about what he could be doing better. Not… _lessons._

If Aramis tries to take him to a brothel, he decides, he’s not going. Absolutely not.

The question of what else these lessons might involve, though, is a complete mystery; and in the absence of immediately available answers, d’Artagnan just resolves not to think too hard about it. Firstly by drinking slightly more than he ought and further into the evening that he ought to, before stumbling home to his Constance and dragging her giddily down to the mattress – even though _technically_ it wasn’t a permitted day, as she reminded him half-heartedly for approximately five seconds, before pretend-sighing and pulling his shirt rather more enthusiastically over his head.

He made sure to squeeze her breast while he took her, in the hope that that would do the trick.

It didn’t.

He sighs and reaches out to swipe the last bit of pâté from the table, ignoring the way Porthos looks up at him, briefly curious. He’s fed up of feeling like a bad lover, and he hopes whatever Aramis has up his sleeve happens soon – he doesn’t know how much longer he’ll be able to bear being unable to satisfy the woman who while they’re not _technically_ married, he’s come to think of as his wife.

He’s just finishing his breakfast as he hears the sound of approaching boots, and looks up to see Aramis – on time today, though barely – who to d’Artagnan’s weary mind manages to look even more cheerful than he managed yesterday.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Aramis announces, like a king addressing his subjects, before reaching deep into his pockets and pulling out several fresh peaches, which he throws to each of them in turn. “ _Et bon appétit._ ”

“To what do we owe this sudden generosity?” Athos asks, studying his peach intently for a few moments before looking suspiciously at Aramis, as if he suspects this is a gift intended to distract him from something terrible that Aramis either has done or will do shortly.

“I just fancied something sweet,” Aramis replies, with what d’Artagnan is starting to suspect is quite a deliberate innocence, “and I thought some of my brothers might do too.”

Porthos laughs through a mouthful of peach.

Athos rolls his eyes, but takes a bite anyway.

Aramis, unexpectedly, does not; but sits down at the opposite corner of the bench from d’Artagnan, where he gets his working knife out of his belt and cuts a large slice out of the fruit, devouring it rapidly, before diving immediately into the wide channel he’s made and licking up the juice there, a droplet of which is running down his hand already.

D’Artagnan finds his eyes following the movements of Aramis’ head, wondering what on earth he’s doing –

– and it’s not until Aramis slurps particularly loudly and gives him a broad wink over the top of the peach that d’Artagnan realises exactly what he’s alluding to.

“ _Aramis!_ ” Athos exclaims, in clear exasperation, as d’Artagnan feels his cheeks heating abruptly.

Porthos, meanwhile, is laughing fit to burst. “Aramis, you’re scandalising the poor lad!” he chides, though the grin on his face and the heavy hand landing on d’Artagnan’s shoulder suggests that his heart’s not really in it.

Aramis’ face emerges from the peach. “I’m just enjoying something sweet, boys,” he protests, eyes twinkling. “You can’t hold me responsible for your dirty minds.”

His tongue flicks out to catch a stray droplet of juice that’s quivering at the edge of his lower lip, just threatening to fall into his beard; and d’Artagnan feels an unmistakeable twitch in his cock.

“Excuse me,” he mumbles, pocketing his peach and walking quickly off in the direction of the stables, deciding he doesn't even care about looking like a boy in front of Athos; instead his head’s buzzing with new ideas, and he needs to be alone for a few moments, and to think.

Once he’s safely out of sight, leaning against the wall behind the stables, he takes the peach out of his pocket and examines it speculatively for a few moments before cutting a segment from it as Aramis did, popping the flesh into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully. It’s beautifully ripe – a little overripe, in fact – and the juice flows from it at the slightest encouragement.

He has to take a deep breath as he remembers the first time he discovered that Constance was this wet for him.

“I see you’ve already identified your first lesson.” Aramis’ voice behind him is very warm, and very low. To his credit, d’Artagnan manages not to jump.

“People –” his voice comes out too high, and he curses internally, forces it lower – “do this?”

“Oh, yes,” Aramis replies, his hand coming to rest heavy on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Look. It’s dripping all down your fingers. You’d better do something about that.”

Resolutely not thinking, d’Artagnan dives straight into the peach’s slit, licking a broad stripe from bottom to top, and sucking up the juice there.

“That’s good, but you want to start with just your lips,” Aramis instructs, leaning close enough that d’Artagnan can smell him, sweat and leather and rosewater. “Kiss her softly, open her up the way you would her mouth. Show me.”

D’Artagnan’s lips are back on the fruit of the flesh within moments, mouthing at its edges; determined not to think about how weird this is and just to see what he can learn from it, imagining the soft, fuzzy skin yielding to his attentions the way Constance will.

“Easy, easy,” Aramis tightens his grip on d’Artagnan’s shoulder. “Whenever you’re between a woman’s legs, the secret is to keep it soft and gentle. It’s far more sensitive than any part of a man’s body. Tease her, keep the pressure as light as you can, and only deepen it once she’s begging you for more. I knew a lady once, all I had to do was breathe on her to make her gush like a mountain stream.”

The idea of Constance, always so sure of herself, so together, _begging_ d’Artagnan for pleasure does something hot and strange to his insides.

“There you go, that’s better. Her essence will be like nothing you’ve ever tasted,” Aramis continues, in that same low, rich voice, as drops of peach juice begin to roll down d’Artagnan’s chin once more. “It might seem strange at first, but you’ll get used to it, and in time you’ll wonder how you ever went without. And even if you’re unsure, don’t let that show. The chances are she’ll need reassuring the first few times, and you can’t expect her to feel pleasure unless she’s relaxed and happy.

“Then once she’s pleading – or insisting, if I know Constance –”

D’Artagnan swallows uncomfortably. He has trouble enough thinking about Constance like this and staying sane, and he’s really not sure how he feels about Aramis thinking about her too.

“– then you start to use your tongue. Lick from her entrance up, like you did before, and not too firmly. Then start to explore. Listen to her body, the tension in her muscles, the noises she makes, if she pushes her hips up into your mouth. Experiment. See if she likes to be kissed or licked, if she likes it when you thrust your tongue inside her. Make sure you keep it gentle at first, and only slowly, _slowly_ build up. Have you found her bud?”

“I… think so?” d’Artagnan replies, pulling back for a moment, and wishing he’d taken a bit more time to explore Constance’s body more thoroughly, rather than blithely assuming she liked the same things he did.

“The bud of flesh at the front, between her lips,” Aramis explains, pointing into the top half of the peach slit with one finger. “That’s where it is, and it’s the most sensitive part of a woman’s sex. But don’t focus all your attention there to start – for a lot of women, that’s far too much. Treat it the same as the rest of her at first. Get her nice and aroused, and then only when you think she’s ready, take it between your lips and suck, _very_ lightly. Then if you think she still needs more, put your fingers inside her while you pleasure her with your mouth.”

“I tried that,” d’Artagnan admits. “It didn’t quite work.”

Aramis stares at him for a moment; but just as d’Artagnan’s starting to feel horribly embarrassed, he smiles reassuringly. “Then we just need to work on your technique a little. Give me your hand.”

D’Artagnan swaps the peach to his left hand, holding up his right (which he notices is distinctly sticky), and Aramis moves around to face him, forming a loose fist around his first two fingers.

“Two fingers,” Aramis instructs; and if d’Artagnan had thought this was unnerving enough before, it’s even worse with Aramis’ dark eyes on him, watching intently, and he looks quickly back down at Aramis’ hand where it’s wrapped around his own. “Crook them a little, and push rhythmically in and out. You’re searching for a smooth, flat spot on the front side. That’s where you rub over with your prick, and you want to find it with your fingers too. Harder. There, that’s good.”

“How will I know when she needs more?”

Aramis gives him the same, predatory smile that made d’Artagnan’s stomach lurch the day before. “If she’s not yet begging you to stop.”

He drops his hand, then, to d’Artagnan’s secret relief, and claps him on the shoulder again. “I’ve given you the basic techniques, but don’t fall into the trap of doing exactly what I’ve said in the order I’ve said it. The most important thing you need to learn is the importance of exploring, and getting to know what your lady likes. Every woman is different, after all. Try everything, and listen to the cues she gives you. Eventually you’ll work out what gives her the most pleasure.”

“Alright,” d’Artagnan replies warily, overcome with how easy Aramis makes it sound.

He almost wishes he could get a demonstration – but no, that _is_ just too weird. He couldn’t possibly watch Aramis with another woman, even if there were women that would be willing to allow that; and he certainly can’t imagine Aramis’ head between Constance’s legs, giving her the pleasure he’s spoken of.

Or rather, he _won’t_ imagine it.

“Athos is getting our orders,” Aramis says – perfectly casually, as if he hasn’t just been schooling d’Artagnan on the art of pleasure – “and he sent me to come and round you up. And to apologise for my behaviour, I should say, though I can’t imagine you’d say there’s anything to apologise for.” He smirks. “Aren’t you going to eat up?”

D’Artagnan blinks in confusion, before realising Aramis is looking at the peach still in his hand, and then back up at him. Aramis’ eyes are dark and intense, and suddenly very close.

D’Artagnan holds the fruit up to his mouth – then hesitates. He’s imagined it so thoroughly as Constance, as that sacred, special part of her, that it doesn’t quite feel right to just bite into it without a further thought.

“No, you have it,” he replies on impulse, holding his hand out – and then immediately wishes he hadn’t, as Aramis plucks the peach from his grasp and winks at him again before taking a hearty bite, flashing white teeth, right over the channel that d’Artagnan has already worked so enthusiastically with his mouth.

“You’re got some juice right there,” Aramis remarks, reaching out with his other hand to swipe at d’Artagnan’s chin with an elegant finger, before sucking it into his mouth, the tip of his tongue coming out to curl visibly around the pad.

D’Artagnan finally realises, in a combination of horror, embarrassment and _intrigue_ , that everything Aramis has said and done this morning has been very much deliberate.

And to top it all off, his breeches are feeling uncomfortably tight.

Aramis is an absolute _menace._

* * *

 

Aramis is a _genius_ , d’Artagnan amends twelve hours later, as he grips Constance’s thighs where they lie over his shoulders, her heels digging into his back in silent encouragement. One of her hands in his hair, tugging a little. He makes a mental note to ask Aramis about that when he next gets a chance.

Aramis had been right; it was strange at first, but as soon as he heard Constance’s first strained, bitten-off moan he’d all but forgotten his nerves and set about trying to replicate it, and then again, and then once more. And now his tongue’s aching and his fingers are rubbing against that spot inside her over and over as he laves and sucks, and her moans turn into a series of high, sharp gasps of which he’s never heard the like, and he reaches up for her hand and clasps it tight as he flicks his tongue against her and tumbles her over the edge.

He scrambles up the bed to hold her through the comedown, pulling her close, kissing her forehead, her cheeks, her mouth – until she looks at him in surprise and he realises his face is wet with her juices; but she doesn’t tell him off, just smiles and ducks her head, and so he decides that if she doesn’t mind then he doesn’t mind either, and kisses her again.

“Where on earth did you come up with a thing like that?” she asks, half-joking; but d’Artagnan hesitates, and he has a fucking terrible face for cards anyway – and he doesn’t know what she reads in his face, but her expression turns abruptly cold.

“Well?” she asks sharply – and he realises in horror what she must be thinking, that he’s lain with someone else, and he nearly trips over his own tongue in haste to get that look off her face.

“I asked Aramis,” he blurts out, squeezing her hand, suddenly fearing that he’s done something very, very wrong. “I’m sorry, I should have asked you first, I realise that now, but – I didn’t know what else to do, and I wanted it to be better –”

He’s pulled up short as Constance presses a finger to his lips. “Shh,” she says, and he breathes a sigh of relief to see the sparkle’s back in her eyes. “Yes, you should have asked me – but I’m willing to let it go, given this evening’s performance. What did he tell you, then? That you should put your mouth… down there?”

“He, ah –” d’Artagnan bites his lip. He’s still hard, despite the moment of fear, and the memory’s making him hot all over in ways he’s not sure he wants to think about too closely. “He gave me a peach. And he...” he almost wants to lie – but he doesn’t lie to Constance, and he’s not sure he’d get away with it even if he tried.

“…he made me show him,” d’Artagnan finishes quietly, not quite able to look her in the eye.

Constance gasps. “And did you imagine it was me?” she asks, as if she can’t quite believe it.

He nods, not quite trusting himself to speak; not sure how he expects her to react.

Amazingly, she _giggles_. “That’s fantastic. I can just imagine it.”

D’Artagnan’s sigh of relief is cut abruptly short as her hand reaches down to rub boldly against the front of his smallclothes.

“In fact,” Constance murmurs shyly, “why don’t you tell me all about it?”


	3. Chapter 3

“So, how did it go?”

D’Artagnan startles at the sound of Aramis’ voice, suddenly very close, and turns abruptly. He hadn’t heard Aramis approach, and it’s on his lips to say _how did what go?_ before he sees the look on his brother’s face, and realises exactly what’s being referred to.

He flicks his gaze guiltily around the courtyard; but Porthos and Athos are sparring together on the far side, well out of earshot, and none of the other Musketeers around are likely to pay the two of them any attention.

“Last night, you mean?”

Aramis’ voice is warm, and amused. “Yes, last night. Did my advice… _hit the spot_ , so to speak?”

D’Artagnan swallows nervously under Aramis’ frank gaze, casting about for an answer that’s suitably honest, but not _too_ indelicate.

“It was…”

 _Well_.

He remembers the look on Constance’s face, nervous yet determined – _curious_ , even – as she reached down between their bodies to unlace his smallclothes and drew out his cock, her hand small and cool on his heated flesh, stroking him tentatively, learning him with her touch; how he thought about Aramis’ lesson and realised he should teach her in turn, reaching down to cover her hand in his and showing her how firmly to grip him, how to slide her hand up and down his shaft just as he does when he’s alone.

Then he began to tell her, hesitantly at first, stumbling over his words, how he’d licked the slit of the peach, Aramis’ voice in his ear telling him to imagine that it was her sex beneath his mouth; and Constance gasped in shock and delight as he told her how sweet it was, how juicy, just like her, and how he’d imagined how good he was going to make her feel; and he climbed on top of her, sheathing himself to the hilt and thrusting fast and deep until she spent a second time, moaning short and bright and clutching him tightly to her, never so beautiful in his eyes as in that moment.

“…it was good,” d’Artagnan manages finally, shifting awkwardly from foot to foot. “She… said to say thank you.”

 _That_ had surprised him enough that he’d had to ask three times if she really meant it; but even early this morning, when he’d fully expected her to have thought better of it, she still made him promise, with a seriousness he doesn’t yet quite understand.

Aramis, more predictably, chuckles. “I’m glad to hear it. Anything for Constance.”

Something has started to twinge in d’Artagnan’s breast whenever Aramis says Constance’s name; whenever he acknowledges that it’s her d’Artagnan is learning how to pleasure. It’s not quite jealousy – d’Artagnan isn’t angry, not like he is whenever he thinks about Bonacieux – but he can sense that an intimacy has formed between him and Aramis that wasn’t there before, and that d’Artagnan hadn’t expected.

It would be different if he were bedding a woman Aramis doesn’t know, or no particular woman at all; but Aramis knows Constance, and he knows what she and d’Artagnan are to each other, and d’Artagnan is starting to realise that he’s unwittingly invited Aramis to share in the intimacy they have together.

He can’t help thinking that it should feel like more of a problem than it does.

“Let me tell you something I’ve learned,” Aramis continues, taking d’Artagnan by the elbow and angling his body slightly away from Athos and Porthos, from the rest of the garrison courtyard. “For many women, putting your mouth on their sex is the best thing you can offer them. It gives them more pleasure than your prick, even. But if a woman tells you that, never let yourself be disheartened by it – it means she trusts you enough to speak frankly.”

Aramis’ expression is relaxed and open, where d’Artagnan would have expected a sly smirk; and he realises for the first time that Aramis is genuinely enjoying this not for his own sake, but for d’Artagnan’s. Not to show off his skills, but because he wants to share his knowledge, and to help d’Artagnan and Constance be as happy together as they possibly can be.

While this realisation makes him slightly flustered – and a little embarrassed to have first thought otherwise – it also gives d’Artagnan the final push to ask the question that’s been bothering him since the night before.

“She pulled my hair,” he blurts out; entirely without warning, before he can think of a more careful way to phrase it. “When I – you know.”

“Alright,” Aramis replies evenly, though it looks a little to d’Artagnan as if he’s trying to suppress a grin. “Did you like it?”

Completely thrown, d’Artagnan mutters, “I don’t know. Should I have?”

Aramis smiles properly at that; but it’s a kind smile, and only makes d’Artagnan feel a little like a bumbling fool. “With lovemaking, it’s never a question of should or shouldn’t,” Aramis replies, resting a hand on d’Artagnan’s waist. “All that matters is what you both like.”

D’Artagnan stiffens slightly under the touch – on his far side, at least, out of sight of anybody around them – and he’s sure Aramis must be taking a liberty, but he can’t quite decide what he wants to do about it; and so ends up doing nothing at all.

“What I taught you yesterday,” Aramis murmurs, “there’s another way you can try –” and d’Artagnan recognises that calculating tone now, designed to intrigue; and he decides he won’t let himself be taken in by it, not at all.

“Lie on your back, and have her lower herself onto you. That way she’s the one in control of her pleasure, and not you. Try it, and see which you both prefer.”

Though he promised himself he wouldn’t do this any more, d’Artagnan can’t help immediately thinking of Milady, and the way her back had arched above him; imagines her pressing her cunt to his mouth, imagines _Constance_ , and forgets how to breathe for just a moment.

He’s throbbing in his breeches and distinctly hot under the collar; and Aramis gives his waist a long, slow squeeze that d’Artagnan’s _sure_ isn’t appropriate.

Desperate to break the tension that seems to be gathering over the two of them like a thunderstorm, d’Artagnan looks wildly around – only to see that Athos has stopped sparring entirely, and is leaning against a column with his arms folded, watching the two of them assessingly.

“Don’t worry about Athos,” Aramis comments, as if reading d’Artagnan’s mind, before dropping his hand. “You’ll find he doesn’t really want to know anyway.”

D’Artagnan nods shortly in reply, before walking over to where Athos waits for them without looking back, trying not to think about how bare his waist suddenly feels without the pressure of Aramis’ hand.

* * *

 

By either a stroke of luck or the hand of Fate, Athos and Porthos are on late duty at the palace that evening, and Aramis doesn’t appear to have an evening planned with his lady friend; for instead of bidding d’Artagnan good night as they leave the garrison, he links his arm through d’Artagnan’s as naturally as if they’d already agreed to spend the evening together, gently yet firmly steering him down an unfamiliar street.

D’Artagnan was expecting to be led to a tavern, not to Aramis’ rooms; and he can’t help stopping on the threshold for a moment to take in the large windows and the whitewashed walls, imagining the space before him filling with daylight when the sun’s up; and noting the remarkable stillness within, not a passing carriage or a human voice to be heard, only the occasional call of a skylark confusing dusk for dawn.

When Aramis directs him to the table, sets a bottle of wine and two glasses in front of them and says by way of an opener that he thought they’d be able to speak more freely here, d’Artagnan would have expected to feel nervous; but something about the atmosphere reminds him of church, the cool stillness of it, the peace he feels in his heart as he kneels at the altar.

There is one sin he is not yet ready to confess; and a good part of him doubts he ever will be.

He knows Aramis’ faith is strong, and wonders if here in his rooms, he’s seeing a new side of his brother for the first time. He imagines him for a moment in the armchair in the corner, reading his Bible, or just in private contemplation; the stillness of his expression the same stillness d’Artagnan sees in him as he aims his pistol, as peaceful in solitude as he is as brilliant in company.

It’s strange, this sudden curiosity; and he shakes it from his shoulders as he sits, taking a deep drink.

“While this is technically your second lesson, in another sense it’s really the first one,” Aramis begins, long, elegant fingers curling around the stem of his wine glass. “This is the basics – the underpinnings of successful lovemaking, if you like.”

“Underpinnings?” d’Artagnan frowns.

“Hmm. Let me try a metaphor.” Aramis leans back in his chair, rolling his shoulders a little. “As a fellow soldier, I can teach you to shoot straight. I can teach you how to hold a sword, how to thrust and parry – but once you’re proficient with a weapon, you’re still only half a soldier. You also need to know how to _fight_. When to shoot, and when to draw your sword. If three men are bearing down on you, who to strike first. How to work with your allies. And it’s the same with a woman; you have to understand the whole picture.”

“That… makes a lot of sense.”

“In love, unlike in war, you’re working with your partner, and not against her,” Aramis says, with a grin that makes the corners of his eyes crinkle. “Although both of them do tend to result in a little death.” 3

D’Artagnan chuckles, looking down at his drink for a moment; glad that he seems to have mostly stopped feeling awkward about these conversations, and that he and Aramis can talk man to man about what is actually one of the most natural human impulses of all.

“Don’t fall into the trap of thinking that satisfying a woman is the ultimate goal,” Aramis continues, “when in fact, it’s only the beginning. You can still triumph on the battlefield without understanding everything that’s at play, and in the bedroom it’s the same – but if you want to satisfy your lady as best you can, and as many times as you can, then you need to know a bit more about what you’re doing.”

D’Artagnan is trying as hard as he can to take in everything Aramis is saying; but he’s finding his mind has got rather insistently stuck on one particular point. “As many times…?”

“Ah. That’s one of the more beautiful secrets of the female body,” Aramis replies, taking a sip of his wine. “Once we men are spent then we’re spent, as you’ll know, and we have to take our time to recover and then start again from the beginning. But a woman can keep on coming time after time, if she has the right stimulation.”

D’Artagnan almost doesn’t dare ask – but the stillness and the low light invites intimacy, and so he gathers up his courage. “How many times?” he manages.

“In my experience?” Aramis does smirk a little, as though he can’t quite help himself. “The lady lost count after eight.”

“Eight,” d’Artagnan repeats, in disbelief.

“But that’s not something you should expect,” Aramis adds hastily, “it depends on the lady herself, and some women don’t welcome nearly that much stimulation. Besides, laying with a woman you love, even if the experience is imperfect, is far sweeter than the most skilled attentions of a woman who doesn’t have your heart. As I’m sure you already know.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan clears his throat, determined not to start thinking about Constance again, or Milady, or wonder whether Aramis is thinking of them too. “So, this… triumph in battle you were talking about.”

Aramis grins. “Quite. Now as with every skill, it’s made up of a combination of theory and practice. There’s no substitute for experience, and familiarity with your lover’s body, but I can definitely tell you a few things to give you a starting point.”

“I’m listening,” d’Artagnan replies, throat suddenly tight as he thinks of holding the peach in his hand again, the weight of Aramis’ instruction pressing in on him. His skin’s prickling under his shirt, and he’s sure it’s the wine that’s making him hot all over. Yes, he definitely blames the wine.

“A woman’s desire is not like a man’s, which centres in one place and one place only.” Aramis’ voice drops, and slows, rolling over d’Artagnan like candlelight, making him tense again. “It’s diffuse, and to arouse her fully, you need to pay attention to her entire body. Imagine it as a banked fire that needs stoking, slowly and diligently; and the higher you build, the brighter and hotter the flame will burn.

“Take your time,” Aramis instructs; his voice sensual, honey-coated. “Even if she seems as ready for you as you are for her, make sure you touch her everywhere, kiss her everywhere. Explore. Learn where she likes your attentions. Her neck, maybe her wrists, her ankles. Along her spine, the nape of her neck, her _décolleté_. Resist the temptation to move too quickly to her breasts, or her sex; try everything else first, and listen to the sounds she makes, and how she moves against you. Learn her reactions, and interpret them. If she seems uninterested in something, then try something else, and see if you can find the things that make her moan.

“You can make a game of it, if that appeals to you both. Ask her to tell you what she wants you to do, and don’t do anything she doesn’t explicitly ask for.”

The idea of Constance using all those filthy words which she _must_ know, but he’s never heard from her lips, does something strange and liquid to d’Artagnan’s insides; and makes something else pulse insistently in his breeches. “I’m not sure about that,” he manages to say, gripping the stem of his glass tightly enough to leave marks.

“Think about it,” Aramis insists; “it teaches you how to talk to each other, and express your desires. While it’s always important to listen to the cues she gives you, that’s no substitution for being able to be frank with each other about what you both like, what you don’t like, and what you might want to try together. And from what I know of Constance, she’s never had any trouble being outspoken – she probably just needs a little encouragement.”

D’Artagnan’s feelings must show on his face; because Aramis puts a hand on his arm suddenly, drawing his attention. “You don’t mind me talking about her?” he asks, his expression just a little uncertain. “I do hope I’m not being indelicate.”

If anyone had asked d’Artagnan before now, he would have said _of course_ he wouldn’t allow Constance to be spoken of like that in his presence; but here, with Aramis, he realises he doesn’t mind at all. Aramis’ address is always familiar – unlike Athos, who painstakingly referred to Constance first as Madame Bonacieux and then, since d’Artagnan announced that he was moving back out of the garrison and taking lodgings with her in a district where nobody knew them, as Madame d’Artagnan – but d’Artagnan knows in his heart that Aramis’ respect for Constance runs deep, and that he only says the things he says because he wants them both to be happy.

“No, it’s fine,” d’Artagnan replies, making sure to look Aramis right in the eye, to give sufficient weight to his words; and finds he wants to go further, to try and explain just how much Constance means to him.

“She’s – I know we can’t marry, but –”

It’s the first time he’s said it to anyone out loud.

He’s surprised to find it hurts to admit, and he flounders for a moment; but Aramis, good as he is, sees that immediately. “Of course,” he replies, hand moving from d’Artagnan’s arm to the back of his hand where it rests against the base of his wine glass, pressing briefly. “She didn’t choose Bonacieux, did she?”

“Her father did,” d’Artagnan replies. It makes his heart ache to know that he will ever be able to ask for her hand, never be able to stand in front of their friends and family and publicly proclaim their love. “She said he was a good man, and if she’d been in love with someone else, he wouldn’t have made her go through with it. But there was nobody else, and she was already twenty. She didn’t feel she could refuse.”

“And now she’s chosen you,” Aramis replies simply. “You may not be married in the eyes of the Church, but I can’t believe that God Himself would be so callous.”

D’Artagnan never doubts, not really, that what they’re doing is right. How could it be otherwise, when they both know they belong together?

But that doesn’t mean he never worries: that Constance’s name is mud in her old neighbourhood, and among her husband’s friends, and that one day it will come back to haunt them; that someone will grow suspicious and call on them to prove their marriage, and that they won’t be able to.

That when the time comes to confess their sin, God will read their hearts and know they are not in earnest, and they will burn for it for eternity.

D’Artagnan tries as hard as he can to have no illusions about their love, or about the effect he’s had on Constance’s life. He knows he can’t always say for certain when he’ll be home next, and that she needs her friends and her neighbours around her, needs church and community as much as she needs him; and that in choosing to live with him as man and wife she’s thrown away everything she held dear.

When so much seems uncertain, even Aramis’ simple understanding and acceptance is a rare and precious gift; and d’Artagnan wishes there was something he could give him in return.

Instead, he presses his brother’s hand, and hopes the weight of his touch says everything that he cannot in so many words.

“Thank you. Really. For everything.”

“It’s truly my pleasure,” Aramis replies easily; but d’Artagnan can see the moment his expression turns distant. “I’ve never had a younger brother… and I doubt I will ever have a son. So I’m glad someone at least can benefit from my knowledge.”

D’Artagnan waits, hardly daring to breathe; but Aramis says nothing further, looking down at the grain in the tabletop, seeming suddenly weary.

This is the first time he’s spoken of the child since that first confession – and d’Artagnan remembers the haze of shock that seemed to distort everything, drain the scene before him of its colour, and left him in a daze that was only broken by the violence of the door slamming as Porthos walked from the room.

Everything that follows is etched on his memory, never to be forgotten; every word that Athos said, pacing up and down that room in that awful inn near Chartres, heels clacking on the wooden floor, every word precise and brutal, and chosen to cut to the quick:

_You cannot allow yourself to persist in this delusion._

_You are not the only one who has committed treason._

_Neither of them would be allowed to live._

_You have endangered her life as well as all of ours._

When Athos too picked up his hat from the sideboard and walked out, it was d’Artagnan who Aramis turned to, curling into him and pressing his face to his shoulder like a child; and he remembers thinking of the way his mother used to hold him as he let a hand rest against Aramis’ head, holding him close as the rain poured down outside.

He knows Aramis is thinking of it too; and reaches for his hand, squeezing his cool fingers for a moment before it comes to him.

“You’ve got a younger brother,” d’Artagnan says simply, “you have had for months;” and the soft, unguarded pleasure on Aramis’ face at that, so like anything d’Artagnan has ever seen from him, makes something unnameable clench in his chest.

“Let’s open another bottle,” Aramis says suddenly, all but jumping up from his seat; his habitual good humour falling back around him like a mantle. “It’s entirely too quiet here, we should be filling it with our good cheer.”

“I should get back home soon,” d’Artagnan protests; but Aramis is already refilling his glass.

“At least another glassful,” Aramis insists, clapping d’Artagnan briefly on the shoulder before he takes his seat again. “If you’re worried about Constance getting lonely without you, then you should start bringing her along.”

D’Artagnan grins. “You know, I might just do that.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 3 _La petite mort_ ; i.e., orgasm.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter owes a debt to [Donna_Immaculata](http://archiveofourown.org/users/donna_immaculata), both for sharing her knowledge of Catholicism, and for allowing me to borrow the idea of Aramis quoting from the _Song of Solomon_.

Constance sighs a little and shifts against d’Artagnan’s side, hooking one leg around his ankle, and he reaches out to pull a stray lock of hair back over her shoulder and out of her eyes. She’s resting her head against his chest, eyes closed; thoroughly worn out from having his fingers thrusting deep inside her, bringing her to the brink over and over as he cheerfully ignored all of her steadily more exasperated hints until she was finally driven to reaching down and grabbing his wrist, demanding in a voice already hoarse with pleasure, “ _Fuck_ me.”

He presses a kiss against the top of her head, lips widening into a grin.

God, but he’s proud of her.

The past few weeks have been a revelation: d’Artagnan can barely remember the Constance who was shy when he undressed her and halting in her touch, who didn’t know what she wanted or dare to ask. She’s been eclipsed in his memory by this new, bold Constance who kneels over him, holding her cunt half an inch above his face so that he has to strain upwards to lick her; this Constance who leans over him as she rides his cock, pulls him up by his hair to take her nipple into his mouth, murmuring _yes, yes._

There have been no more lessons – not that d’Artagnan thinks they need them.

And yet there’s something still niggling at him in the quiet moments between loving and fighting, something left unfinished; there are nights where Aramis’ voice echoes in his ear as he slowly fades into sleep, consonants flowing into vowels, the words just beyond his reach. The memory of a hand on his shoulder, his waist.

Come the morning he tries to put it out of his mind; but he can’t deny that when he looks at Aramis, some part of d’Artagnan that’s far too honest wants to tell him everything. How much happier they are together, how well they’re learning each other’s bodies. How Constance sometimes looks at him like he’s her entire world, like there’s nothing at all beyond their bedroom door.

How Constance likes it when d’Artagnan puts his lips on the sensitive hollow below her ear, likes the bristling of his stubble against the nape of her neck. How he makes her come and come until she begs him to stop, just as Aramis told him to; how she takes his cock in her mouth, licks and sucks him to desperate straining hardness, though she only ever wants him to spill inside her.

 _You gave us this_ , d’Artagnan wants to say, as he watches his brother: eyes lively beneath the brim of his hat, the small, private smile that settles on his face as if he’s remembering something sweet.

 _You gave us this_ , _and it should be as much your joy as mine._

Of course, he says nothing – and when Aramis catches him looking, d’Artagnan just gives him the vague, apologetic smile that speaks of an intimacy lost, before turning away once more, refusing to ask himself why it matters so much.  

Aramis’ knowledge was a gift, freely given, and he made it clear that d’Artagnan owes him nothing.

They are still brothers, that has never been in question.

And yet he feels as though he has offered a hand of friendship only to snatch it back again, flinching away at the first brush of fingers against his own.

* * *

 

Several days later, a distant mission forces the four of them into overnighting at an inn outside the city; and when first Athos retires upstairs with a bottle of wine, and then Porthos is drawn to the other side of the room by the promise of a card game, d’Artagnan finds himself abruptly alone with Aramis at table.

He struggles through ten minutes of small talk, and finds himself equally unnerved by the silence that follows; he’s drunk too much already, and all he can think of is the things they’re not saying. Of Aramis’ voice dropping low, sweet and heavy like fortified wine; building warmth in his belly that spreads to every corner of his skin, leaving something choppy and unsettled in its wake.

When something comes to mind that seems even half-way acceptable, he blurts it out immediately.

“What do you think about God?”

Aramis tilts his head, considering. “In general?”

“No, I mean –” d’Artagnan stalls for a moment, groping for an explanation. “Things are going well. At home, that is. But Constance – we still worry, sometimes. About church. About our priest.”

Aramis nods sympathetically. “Because you’re living as man and wife, or…?”

D’Artagnan raises his eyebrows significantly. “ _And_ that.”

“Ah. Yes.” Aramis looks down, smiling into his drink for a moment as if at a fond, private memory. “Well, as I’m sure you appreciate, confession is an act of repentance. And if you don’t repent, then…” He shrugs.

“None of it,” d’Artagnan replies, the words suddenly thick in his throat. “Not for a single second. But –”

But what if he’s _wrong?_

Father Michaud is a man of God, after all, and d’Artagnan is not; and though he goes to Mass as regularly as his duty permits these days, the battle between his confessor and his conscience just seems to rage all the harder for it.

Yet he knows that he will still follow the tug of his rebel heart, every time; and he will not, _cannot_ believe that they would be condemned as adulterers. Not when Constance never had a real choice to begin with.

“But that’s not what your priest tells you,” Aramis finishes for him, when d’Artagnan doesn’t reply. “Priests are just men. I should know, I almost became one.” He smiles slightly at d’Artagnan’s shock, and shrugs again, as if he were confessing to a youthful indiscretion. “Luckily I realised in time just how ill-suited I was. But men misinterpret the word of God all the time. They twist it to suit their own purposes, and deny what we know in our hearts to be true. God made us in His image, and when men tell us to struggle against our own natures for His glory –” his expression twists – “I don’t call that glory, I call it an insult!”

D’Artagnan barely has time to blink in surprise before the anger has already passed; and Aramis gives a small, apologetic smile, as if he hadn’t quite meant to let the strength of his feeling show. “But the priests would say that God speaks through them, and I’m just a heretic who’s trying to justify my corrupted ways,” he concludes, tone deliberately light – draining his drink, and glancing briefly over at Porthos, as if to reassure himself that no brawls are imminent, before getting to his feet. “Shall we? I for one want to take advantage of the fact that I’m sharing with somebody who doesn’t snore.”

They each deposit a handful of coppers on the table, and d’Artagnan follows Aramis upstairs, grinning to himself at the idea of his brother as a priest. He would have been _terrible_ at it, for all his faith.

As he closes the door to their room, d’Artagnan isn’t expecting Aramis to turn back to face him after placing his hat on the chair beside the bed, hands stilling at the buckle on his baldric. “What do you know of God’s word? Just the catechism?”

“Pretty much,” d’Artagnan replies – hands automatically going to his own buckle, just to give himself something to do. “And what I’ve heard in church, though my Latin’s… not perfect.”

That’s an exaggeration – he can barely follow any of the sermon, and Constance has no Latin at all. And yet neither of them have ever questioned the way they go to Mass week after week and let the word of God wash over them, impenetrable.

D’Artagnan wonders for the first time in his life if that makes him just as far from God as any sin does.

“I could get you a copy of the Bible,” Aramis offers – perfectly casually, as if nothing would be easier. “Some of it, anyway. In French.”

D’Artagnan stares. “Surely that’s heresy.”

“So are many things,” Aramis counters. “Some friends and I – fellow part-time scholars – are translating it ourselves, and there are parts I think it would help you to hear. Celebrations of love – erotic love, and the joy of pleasure – that I’ve never heard in any catechism, though they are as much the word of God as anything else.”

“What are they?” d’Artagnan asks, his chest tight with an emotion that it takes him a few moments to identify as anger.

All the priests he’s ever known have talked of marriage as being man’s natural, intended state, and of the importance of bearing children; but even within that permitted union, desire is still a temptation, something earthly and base, that threatens the purity of the soul.

And now Aramis is as good as saying he’s been lied to all his life. That he and Constance have been kept in fear and ignorance – and all for naught.

“Let me read you something,” Aramis replies, putting his pack on the chair and rummaging about until he pulls out a folded square of parchment. “This is one of the songs of the Bible, that a friend of mine’s been working on recently.”

He sits down on the edge of the bed, still in his doublet, and begins to recite the words aloud, with a calm, quiet reverence that makes d’Artagnan feel for a moment as if they’re back in the peaceful stillness of Aramis’ rooms, before the words start to sink in:

_“You are my private garden, my treasure, my bride,_  
 _a secluded spring, a hidden fountain._  
 _Your thighs shelter a paradise of pomegranates_  
 _with rare spices -_  
 _henna with nard,_  
 _nard and saffron,_  
 _fragrant calamus and cinnamon,_  
 _with all the trees of frankincense, myrrh, and aloes,_  
 _and every other lovely spice._  
 _You are a garden fountain,_  
 _a well of fresh water_  
 _streaming down from Lebanon’s mountains._

_Awake, north wind!_  
 _Rise up, south wind!_  
 _Blow on my garden_  
 _and spread its fragrance all around._  
 _Come into your garden, my love;_  
 _taste its finest fruits.”_ 4

It takes d’Artagnan a few moments to realise that Aramis has stopped reading and is looking over at him expectantly, still seated on the mattress. The angles of his face are sharp in the candlelight, shadows pooling in the hollow of his neck, holding himself as still and silent as a priest waiting to hear confession; and d’Artagnan is supposed to say something, isn’t he?

“ _That’s_ in the Bible,” he manages, hardly able to believe his ears.

“Every word of it,” Aramis confirms, standing again to unbutton his doublet, breaking the spell that’s fallen in the close, quiet room, “and more besides. And the lady in question is never referred to as his wife, but as his lover, and their love is celebrated as something sacred.”

D’Artagnan finishes undressing in silence, all his words seeming suddenly inadequate; and Aramis lets him, stripping down to his own smallclothes and getting under the blankets without a word.

It’s not until the candle’s out and they’re lying together in the darkness that d’Artagnan says, “I’d like to read it. The Bible. You’re right, I want us to be able to decide for ourselves.”

“Of course,” Aramis replies; and he’s silent for long enough that d’Artagnan is starting to think he’s already fallen asleep when he suddenly says, “Do you know the story of Jesus healing the centurion’s slave?” 5

“I… think so?” d’Artagnan replies, turning his head; but the room is nearly pitch dark, and he can’t make out his brother’s expression at all, just the vague shape of his dark hair against the bedsheets.

“I’d always just heard the man referred to as a slave,” Aramis continues, voice quiet enough that d’Artagnan has to strain to hear it, “but then I read the Greek for the first time, and it was clear. He was no ordinary slave, but the centurion’s lover. And Jesus didn’t condemn them for it, he healed him, just the same.”

 _Oh_ , d’Artagnan thinks, hands fisting unconsciously in the blankets.

Suddenly, a lot of things make sense.

Aramis’ hand on d’Artagnan’s waist, his voice in his ear. The _lessons_.

The way he felt, flushed and exposed under Aramis’ knowing gaze; and though he truly still believes that Aramis genuinely meant to help him and Constance, it’s clear now that there’s more to this than he’d realised – and his heart pounds with something he couldn’t call disgust.

He’s learned a lot since he came to Paris, about certain kinds of men and their private salons, many of them aristocrats with the ear of the King; no, he can hardly be called an innocent, though he’d blushed at what these men might do together, and tried to put it out of his mind. It was surely another world entirely, never colliding with his own – but he knows suddenly, with the surety of faith, that were it not for Constance, he would follow wherever Aramis led him without a second thought.

“I would never want you to think love is unholy,” Aramis murmurs, his lips surely just inches from d’Artagnan’s. “ _Any_ love.”

D’Artagnan rests his head back against his pillow, face raised to the ceiling, and closes his eyes, as he waits for Aramis to reach for him, guilt and desire churning together in his gut like oil and water.

He knows full well that anything they might do together under the cloak of darkness is nothing like lying with a woman – it never could be – but he and Constance are man and wife, they have joined together as one flesh; and however he might try to excuse it, he knows in his heart that it could only be a betrayal.

He tenses as he registers a shifting beside him, and holds his breath – until he realises that Aramis is turning onto his other side, away from him.

“Good night, d’Artagnan,” Aramis says as he settles, in a tone that d’Artagnan can’t interpret at all.

“Good night,” he replies awkwardly, feeling even more guilty for feeling relieved.

He will not betray her with his body, no matter how much he might betray her in his mind.

 _Finally, something I can confess_ , he thinks; and almost wants to laugh, because he couldn’t say _this_ – not even to his priest. Too shocking, too shameful to admit the full extent of his depravity, even if God Himself would still offer him His blessing.

He would have to tell a half-truth: pretend it’s a woman he wants to reach out for him here in the dark; that the body he wants to cover his own is all soft, delicate curves rather than sharp, muscled lines; his fingers seeking out a tight, wet cunt, not –

He bites sharply down on his cheek as desire rushes through him, pooling hard and urgent in his cock, straining at his smalls; and jams his hands under his thighs as he tries and fails to push the images away, to think of something, anything else.

He won’t do it. Won’t touch himself to the thought of Aramis turning back to him, his breath hot and heavy on d’Artagnan’s neck, pinning him in place as Aramis unlaces his smalls and reaches inside, fisting his cock with a sure grip as d’Artagnan reaches out for him in turn, touching Aramis as if he were touching himself.

Aramis would push himself up on his elbow and lean over him until their mouths met, frenzied and filthy, the fact of Aramis’ lips on his somehow even more unspeakable than his hand on his cock.

He won’t. _Won’t,_ not with Aramis right there and still awake, just won’t.

D’Artagnan chews on his cheek again, not daring even to sigh aloud.

It’s going to be a long night.

* * *

 

D’Artagnan sleeps as fitfully as expected, and morning comes far too soon, when he’s panicked into wakefulness by the heat of Aramis’ breath on the back of his neck and last night’s unseen-to hardness heavy and insistent between his thighs; but Aramis just wishes him a pleasant good morning before performing his ablutions and dressing himself, bustling about their room as easily as if the previous night’s conversation had never taken place, while d’Artagnan keeps his eyes screwed shut against the persistent morning light, waiting for Aramis to leave the room so he can douse himself in cold water.

As he splashes the cool water on his face, he watches the trembling on the surface of the bowl and remembers words he has heard a hundred times:

_To lust after another is to have already committed adultery in your heart._

The thought stays with him as he forces down breakfast, and as they ride slowly back to Paris, nobody speaking; though Aramis rides silently alongside d’Artagnan all the while, his presence strangely comforting, even though d’Artagnan’s half-sick with nerves.

He doesn’t know what Aramis has guessed – it could be anything or nothing, and d’Artagnan has no words left over for him in any case, his head buzzing with the knowledge of what he must do; but he does give him a deliberate pat on the shoulder as they take their leave of each other back at the garrison, looks into those kind, concerned eyes for a moment and thinks, _we’re alright_.

Aramis just smiles and nods, clasping d’Artagnan’s shoulder for a moment in turn; then lets him go, every step taking him closer to the moment where he must confess his sins to his wife.

 _We swore we’d tell each other everything_ , he reminds himself; to be honest, to trust each other no matter what. And there’s no question of trying to keep it from her – he doesn’t know how he could, it’s too big for that, she’ll see it in seconds.

But this…

To have lusted after a _man_ –

He doesn’t know if she’ll be shocked, or disgusted; if she even knows it’s _possible._ If she’ll decide that going back to Bonacieux, or even to her family, is better than staying with a degenerate like him.

All he can do is hope: that even if she’s horrified she’ll forgive him, and acknowledge that he hasn’t done anything, is striving to stay true.

The house smells of stew, already bubbling away in the hearth; and Constance is standing under the window, the mid-afternoon light playing along her red curls, pretty as a painting. As she turns towards him the sight takes d’Artagnan’s breath away for just a moment, and he thinks that he has never loved her so much, or been so scared.

“It’s not quite ready,” she says, gesturing at the pot. “I didn’t expect you back so soon.” She smiles playfully, and d’Artagnan can tell she’s on the brink of suggesting what they do with the extra time –

and in the next second her face changes.

“What is it?” she asks, crossing her arms defensively in front of her chest, as if she can shield herself from what he has to say to her. “Did something happen?”

It takes him a second to realise what she must think – that the mission went wrong, that someone’s been injured, or worse – and he holds up his hands hastily. “No, it’s alright. Everybody’s fine. Just – sit down?”

As they sit together at the kitchen table, he reaches automatically for Constance’s hand, looking at her fingers where they link through his instead of at her face.

“I… don’t know how to say this,” he confesses helplessly; because how do you even _start_ , with a thing like this?

“Start from the beginning,” Constance prompts, “that’s what my mother always said. Tell me everything that’s happened.”

“Alright. I –”

_Just say it. Don’t think about it, just say it._

“I talked to Aramis last night,” he begins haltingly, forcing the words out. “I asked him if he thought we were sinning. By living as man and wife, and – and the other things.”

When he can’t find the words for a few moments, Constance squeezes his hand reassuringly. “Go on.”

“And he said that priests don’t tell us everything. That there are things in the Bible… he read me this verse about a woman whose lover put his mouth on her. Like we do.”

Constance stares at him in disbelief. “That’s in the Bible.”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan insists. “And it says he’s her lover, not her husband, and this – this is as much the word of God as anything the priests say.”

He dares a glance up at her, where she’s regarding him steadily, if anything a little confused. “Alright,” she replies slowly, “but I didn’t think you were so worried for our souls?”

For a moment he can’t answer her, the words of the catechism ringing in his ears.

_You’ve already committed adultery in your heart._

“There was another story, too,” he continues flatly, looking down at their joined hands once more, not able to hold her gaze. “Where Jesus heals a Roman centurion’s slave. Aramis said it’s been misinterpreted, and that the slave is actually the centurion’s lover. And I think he meant to – I think he wanted –”

He can’t say it, he just _can’t._

“I’m so sorry,” he whispers instead, clutching her hand like a lifeline, trying to memorise the feel of it in his, in the last few seconds before she takes it back for the last time.

She lifts his chin with her other hand, and looks sadly into his eyes, as he steels himself for her to tell him she can’t love him any longer.

Instead, she says, “Charles. You really didn’t know what this was, did you?”

“What?” d’Artagnan replies stupidly, hardly able to believe what he’s hearing.

“I’m sorry – I would have told you, but I thought you knew.”

She smiles tentatively, and d’Artagnan is so fucking _astonished_ that she isn’t disgusted by him that he doesn’t care she’s somehow known this whole time, even before he knew himself.

“You knew that he –” he pulls up short. He just can’t make any sense of it. “ _How…?!_ ”

Then Constance looks at him as if he’s being particularly thick. “Why did _you_ think Aramis got you do… _that_ … with that peach? Of course he enjoyed it. Otherwise he would have just given you some vague pointers and left it at that.”

At least half of d’Artagnan wants to laugh in sheer relief, but his chest is still too tight; and he just ends up gasping out a breath of air, wondering if this is a dream he’s going to wake up from any moment.

Then it’s Constance’s turn to look uncertain, squeezing his hand and dropping her gaze. “You know that – I know you love me, but if you felt like that as well sometimes – I’d want to know. I wouldn’t want you to keep it from me.”

“If it wasn’t for you, I would have – well. Let him,” d’Artagnan admits, not looking at her either. “I think he was – waiting to see if I would.”

“I’m glad you didn’t. But I – I don’t know how to say this,” she laughs helplessly, and d’Artagnan feels a sudden cold fear squeezing his heart as he realises he has no idea what Constance is about to say.

“Please, just say it,” he begs, clutching her hands and trying not to let his mind run away from him.

“If you wanted –” she stops, tries again. “He’s taught you so much. How much more could he teach us together?”

_Together._

Him, and Constance, and Aramis, all together.

He would never have dared say it, would never have dared _think_ of it – and here Constance is, _offering_ – and d’Artagnan wonders what else he’s missed.

All of this time he’s been worrying for _her_ – for her soul and her conscience, wanting to reassure her that he’s not led her into anything sinful, that God will not judge them for finding each other too late – and the whole time she’s been thinking of something more shocking than he would ever have imagined.

“Don’t do this for me,” he manages; even as he realises that he wants it, wants it _desperately._

“I’m not. Well – I am, but I – he’s not unattractive. It wouldn’t be a hardship.” Constance must mistake d’Artagnan’s confusion for horror, because she ploughs on. “I love _you_ , don’t doubt that, and Aramis would be a terrible husband. And I don’t want him inside me. I want to keep that for you. But – please say something?”

“Yes,” d'Artagnan replies hoarsely. “Yes. But how did you know about…”

“That some men like each other's company?” She smiles. “I'm hardly your innocent country girl, now am I? I know more than you'd expect about Parisian vices.” She pauses. “Well – it was one of my brothers. I saw him with another boy, just a few weeks before I married. I never told anyone.”

“And is this _Parisian_ enough for you? Inviting someone else to our bed?”

“Might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb, as my mother always said. Though I doubt this was quite what she had in mind. And we’d have to decide first what we wanted. What we’d ask of him. Have you thought about it?”

“I didn’t let myself,” d’Artagnan admits.

“I have,” Constance replies, a strange fire in her eyes as she gets up from her seat and climbs into d’Artagnan’s lap, straddling him. “I’ve had a bit of time to think about it, actually, what with you away. If you like, I can tell you what I thought?”

“Be my guest,” he manages, steadying her with his hands on her waist.

“I know you liked it when he told you how to touch me,” she leans forward, caressing the shell of his ear with her lips. “At first I thought it was because you were imagining how I’d be, but it was because it was him telling you, wasn’t it?”

“It was both,” d’Artagnan gasps as she bites down on his earlobe, feeling as much blood rushing to his face as to his cock.

“Hmm. Then I’d want him upstairs in our bed, maybe sitting behind me, so I could lean against his chest as he tells you where to put your fingers –” Constance reaches for d’Artagnan’s hand, pulls it down to the hem of her skirts where they’re bunched up over his lap – “how hard to press. He might even put his hand over yours and show you.”

“ _Oh_ ,” d’Artagnan breathes as he reaches under Constance’s skirt and brushes against her folds, where she’s already wet. “Constance,” he murmurs reverently, saying her name like a prayer as she jerks against his touch.

“Would you like to see him touching me like that? Or would you rather he touched you?”

“Either. Both,” d’Artagnan stutters out, his cock hard and pounding in his breeches.

“That’d be an education,” she replies playfully, hand pressing against the bulge between his legs, making him groan. “I don’t know what two men do together, but I’m sure Aramis does. He could explain it to me while he shows you.”

“ _God_ ,” d’Artagnan groans. “Please, I need to be inside you –”

“Before you’ve made me come? Now, that’s not very gentlemanly, is it? Have you been forgetting your lessons?” Constance teases, as d’Artagnan’s hand speeds up between her legs, rubbing as hard as he dares. “I’ll have to speak to him about this. I’m sure between us we can come up with a lesson in patience for you. Both of our hands on you, perhaps, not letting you come.”

The image sends a white-hot flash through d’Artagnan’s mind, and he has to bite his lip and work not to rub up against Constance’s hand until he spills in his linens, which he can’t imagine would be very far off. “Please stop, I can’t…”

“Alright, love, you’ll get your turn,” Constance replies, moving her hand from d’Artagnan’s crotch to his shoulder, and gripping hard. “Once you’ve – _ah_!” she moans sharply as d’Artagnan thrusts two fingers inside her, though the angle’s difficult and he can’t quite push as deep as he wants to.

He alternates between thrusting his fingers inside her and rubbing along her folds, and within a minute she’s shaking and coming above his hand, and he leans forward to kiss the moans from her lips.

She rests her forehead against his, and d’Artagnan can’t help grinning stupidly, because what could he possibly have done to deserve this woman as his wife?

“I love you,” he says, fingers skimming over her face and neck with his other hand, “and your filthy mind.”

“Love you too,” she replies, hands going to the buttons on his breeches. “And if it’s alright with you, your filthy wife is going to fuck you now, right here in this chair.”

“Please,” d’Artagnan groans as her hand brushes against his tented linens, “be my guest.”

“Now that’s better,” Constance croons as she draws him out of his smallclothes, and shifts forwards to sheathe herself down upon him in one fluent motion. “I must remember to thank Aramis for all the work he’s done on you, it’s made you much more agreeable. Luckily, I’ll think I’ll have a pretty good opportunity.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 4 Song of Solomon 4: 12-16. [New Living Translation](https://www.biblegateway.com/passage/?search=Song%20of%20Solomon%204&version=NLT).  
> 5 Matthew 19: 10-12. ([source for Greek textual discussion](http://www.wouldjesusdiscriminate.org/biblical_evidence/gay_couple.html))


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry this has taken so long, everyone! I suffered from an acute case of Aramis-flavoured scope creep. Particular thanks to [mellyflori](http://www.archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori), without whose sustained cheerleading it might never have actually made it.

_Why did I ever think this would be a good idea…?_

D’Artagnan picks up his glass again just to give himself something to do with his hands, taking a gulp of wine that was supposed to be a sip. He barely tastes it as it goes down.

Opposite him at the table, Aramis gives him a small, cordial smile; and d’Artagnan knows him well enough by now to know that Aramis can read him like a book, and is gallantly ignoring the palpable awkwardness that’s been present ever since the three of them sat down to dinner.

 _Come on, Charles_ , he tells himself firmly _, get it together._

He just needs to spit it out. Get it over with.

Though he and Constance have been planning this for days – _fantasising_ , really, touching and kissing and murmuring against each other’s skin, _would you like him to do this to you?_ – now that the moment has arrived, fear is sour in the back of his throat and he can’t stop fidgeting, his leg jogging ceaselessly under the table, his eyes darting between Constance and Aramis and away and back to Constance again like an insect trapped behind glass.

It’s only his faith in Constance that stops him giving up on the whole idea right now.

 _Constance is smart_ , he reminds himself, smarter than he is. It was Constance who understood the things that he didn’t, Constance who believed – who _believes_ – this is possible.

Constance, who wants Aramis too, and wants Aramis and d’Artagnan to have each other – and _God,_ if _that_ idea doesn’t turn d’Artagnan’s insides to something hot and liquid.

He turns to her and raises his eyebrows, seeking wordless permission; and she nods encouragingly.

He can see Aramis in the corner of his vision, politely pretending not to notice.

He clears his throat.

“Aramis. Thank you for joining us.”

D’Artagnan’s voice comes out stilted, and strangely formal – as if he were addressing a stranger, he thinks, and he can’t help cringing instinctively.

Under the table, Constance’s hand finds his knee, and grips.

“It’s truly my pleasure,” Aramis replies easily; looking for all the world as if he’s never been more relaxed. As if his hosts haven’t been noticeably on edge for the entire evening. “Both for the excellent food, and the equally excellent company.”

Aramis doesn’t know what’s coming, of course, or d’Artagnan expects he would be rather less relaxed.

He opens his mouth to respond – and freezes as he realises he has absolutely no idea what to say next.

Clearly he and Constance should have spent a bit less time thinking about all the things they wanted to do with Aramis – in explicit detail, no less – and a lot more time deciding how they were going to broach the idea in the first place.

 _Did_ they decide anything? He’s honestly not sure. In fact, his mind is a terrified blank.

He looks desperately over at Constance, silently willing: _help me out here!_

“You’re too kind,” Constance takes over, because she is amazing; and d’Artagnan breathes a sigh of relief as he realises that at least he won’t have to figure out how to say the unsayable – which dies in his throat when Aramis gives him a curious glance. “But – we did have an ulterior motive in inviting you here.”

“Well, I must confess…” Aramis replies carefully, “I did suspect you both had something on your minds.”

It’s possibly the greatest understatement d’Artagnan has ever heard in his life.

“You gave d’Artagnan some advice recently,” Constance continues, getting straight to the point in a way that d’Artagnan imagines would be beyond even him; and he can’t help staring at her, in a mix of fear and admiration. “And I was wondering – if you’ve thought about how you’re going to check his progress.”

There’s something hard in her tone now – determined, or defensive – as she stares boldly across the table, though the way her nails dig into d’Artagnan’s leg through his breeches betray her nervousness; and he can see the precise moment her words sink in, the way Aramis snaps to attention, as a moth to a sudden flame. The answering fire that kindles in his dark eyes makes something flip in d’Artagnan’s stomach, sending him momentarily giddy.

D’Artagnan may not be the most worldly of men, but he’s always trusted his instincts where other people are concerned, and they’ve rarely let him down; and he knows with as much certainty as if Aramis had spoken aloud that he has realised exactly what d’Artagnan and Constance are offering – and is neither shocked nor disgusted, but very much intrigued.

“Well, to my mind the question is, how would you both like me to do that?” Aramis replies smoothly, his lips curving in what d’Artagnan might even go so far as to call delight. “Perhaps you already have an approach in mind.”

Unable to find his voice, d'Artagnan just looks between the both of them in turn, hardly daring to breathe, torn between the keen focus in Aramis’ eyes and the bold resolve in Constance’s. Marvelling at how his wife seems to understand the game of seduction just as instinctively as any of the men and women he’s observed at court; or even the few, rather more private salons he attended when they were apart, the men and women there delighting in the sort of conversation that reminded him of sparring, although with words as their weapons instead of swords.

Constance has always surprised him at every turn; and one of the things d’Artagnan knows as surely as his own name is that he never wants that feeling to end.

“I was thinking a practical demonstration,” Constance announces baldly; and d’Artagnan can only watch as she brings her hands up above the table, one reaching out to take his, fingers curling familiarly round his own – and the other across to Aramis, who takes it almost immediately, twisting his own hand to entwine their fingers, pressing their palms together.

“And I find myself very much in favour,” Aramis replies, looking at Constance with something akin to the level of admiration d’Artagnan himself is feeling. “Would you agree, d’Artagnan?”

Aramis’ tone becomes abruptly serious, and he puts his free hand out, palm-up, waiting for d’Artagnan’s accord; and d’Artagnan is so, _so_ glad he doesn’t have to say anything more than, “Yes,” as he lays his hand on top of Aramis’, watching as Aramis shifts his grip to curl his fingers round the side of d’Artagnan’s hand, and squeezes, the pressure warm and sure.

“Then why don’t you lead the way?”

The moment stretches out as the three of them look to one another in turn, wondering who’s going to move first; until it’s Constance who gets to her feet, saying briskly, “Alright then.”

“Shall I bring some wine?” Aramis asks as he stands, turning towards the sideboard for a fresh bottle without waiting for a reply; and d’Artagnan and Constance mount the stairs together without another word, still holding tightly to each other’s hands.

As they enter the bedroom d’Artagnan pulls Constance into an immediate embrace, placing a careful kiss to her forehead. “Are you alright?”

“Well, I’m pretty nervous,” she admits, leaning her head against his chest; and his hand comes up to hold her in place there, stroking her hair.

“You’re not the only one,” d’Artagnan replies, with a laugh that comes out quite a bit shakier than he wanted it to. “Are you sure you still want to do this?”

“Yes,” Constance insists, looking up at d’Artagnan with determination in her eyes. “Definitely. You?”

“Yes,” he echoes, smiling down at her through a wave of affection. “I really do.”

At the sound of footsteps on the stairs they break hurriedly apart, before realising how ridiculous they’re being – this is no secret affair, d’Artagnan reminds himself firmly, they’re man and wife for God’s sake – and they’re smiling sheepishly at each other when Aramis appears in the doorway, now in his shirtsleeves with the promised bottle dangling from one hand – and it hits d’Artagnan like a punch to the gut that they’re really going to do this, that it’s _happening._

Looking at Constance, he can see the same realisation reflected in her face, all her earlier boldness evaporated as she looks at Aramis like he’s the bearer of bad news.

D’Artagnan feels bad for him, of course he does; but the truth is they’ve wandered off the edge of the map, he feels just as lost as Constance seems to, and hasn’t a clue where to start.

“Why don’t we all sit down, hmm?” Aramis suggests, gesturing with the bottle in the direction of their marital bed – which d’Artagnan had been trying to pretend wasn’t there, but he’s suddenly pathetically grateful that Aramis at least still has some modicum of composure left to help things along, however stupid he feels for needing that help. “Make ourselves comfortable.”

“Good idea,” d’Artagnan replies thickly, perching on the edge of the bed, Constance coming to sit down beside him as Aramis sits on her other side, putting the bottle beside him on the floor, and leaving just a little space between their bodies as Constance reaches for his hand once more.

“Have you done this before?” d’Artagnan blurts out, before he can think better of it.

“This isn’t the first time a wife and her husband have invited me to their bedchamber, no,” Aramis replies carefully, leaning forward a little to meet d’Artagnan’s gaze. “But as to what exactly happens in this bedchamber – well, in that I defer to Constance here entirely.”

“Then I’m afraid you might be waiting a while,” Constance jokes weakly, her eyes firmly on her hand where it’s gripping Aramis’ in her lap. Her knuckles are white; and d’Artagnan reaches for her without a second thought, tucking a stray lock of hair behind her ear before squeezing her shoulder, massaging the muscle with his thumb. He’s not sure she’s ever felt so tense beneath his fingers.

“I must say, I do admire you greatly,” Aramis replies, stroking his thumb across her knuckles. “You desired something from me and you asked for it plainly, when many women – many _people_ – would not have dared. And while I’m going to ask you to continue being frank with me…” Aramis lifts his other hand to hook a finger beneath Constance’s chin, turning her head to face him more fully, “perhaps I could help by starting us off?”

“Please do,” Constance breathes; and Aramis’ eyes flick to d’Artagnan, seeking permission.

Throat tight, D’Artagnan nods his agreement, hand reaching into Constance’s lap to cover both of theirs as Aramis moves his hand to cradle Constance’s jaw, leaning in to kiss her, soft and slow; and the sight of the two of them together is –

Well. D’Artagnan’s only starting to realise now that he was expecting to feel a little jealous – _threatened,_ even, and were it anyone else he probably would have. But this is _Aramis_ whose hand is slipping around the back of Constance’s neck, who’s opening her mouth with his kisses and caressing her tongue with his; and d’Artagnan’s left reeling with how he wants _everything_ , all at once. Wants Constance, wants Aramis, wants to see them together, wants them both for himself. Wants things the mere idea of which make him half-dizzy with lust.

And he doesn’t just want Aramis; he trusts him, too, or this would be impossible.

D’Artagnan pushes his hand between theirs and entwines Constance’s fingers with his own, running his thumb over the inside of her wrist in silent reassurance as he watches Aramis’ hand move from Constance’s neck to her shoulder, stroking the line of her bare collarbone with his thumb, pressing into the hollow where it meets her throat.

“There, that’s good,” he murmurs, pulling back a little; his other hand leaving d’Artagnan’s to curve against Constance’s waist, along the line of her bodice. “Just stay relaxed, and we can take this at whatever pace is comfortable.”

“It’s d’Artagnan who needs your tutelage, not me,” Constance mutters, her voice brittle; and d’Artagnan squeezes her hand as Aramis just smiles warmly at her, not offended in the least.

“The first time I did anything like this, I was so nervous,” he confesses, reaching up to tuck Constance’s hair behind her ear in a gesture which is so familiar to d’Artagnan that he needs a moment to catch his breath. “She was my patroness, and she and her husband were both so worldly and sophisticated, and I was fresh from the provinces and in love with Paris and all its temptations; and I feared them just as much as I desired them.”

 _Them_ , d’Artagnan thinks, his heart thumping insistently in his chest, _he desired_ both _of them;_ and suddenly that’s all the conviction he needs to say, “Aramis,” in a voice that’s half-order, half-plea; scrambling to his knees on the mattress, pulling Aramis to him over Constance’s shoulder and kissing him without a second thought.

Aramis’ lips are soft and his moustache bristles slightly against d’Artagnan’s upper lip as he returns the kiss just as fiercely as d’Artagnan gives it; he tastes of wine and smells of leather and sweat and gunpowder, and d’Artagnan wants to drink him down and down to the dregs, feels half-drowned in him already. He dimly registers Aramis’ hand moving to the small of his back, pulling him forward and pressing Constance close between them, making her gasp in surprise.

He’s stopped short by a hand in his hair, pulling his head firmly back; and the sensation’s so familiar that it takes him a moment to realise it’s actually Aramis’ hand in his hair and not Constance’s at all, and that Aramis is looking not at him but at Constance as he asks, “Is this alright?”

“Yes,” she replies, eyes wide and voice only a little tight, “be my guest;” and d’Artagnan feels the first slow stirrings of arousal in his belly as the implications of Aramis’ question become clear.

Aramis’ gaze is assessing as it returns to d’Artagnan, a coiled intensity that d’Artagnan realises now he’s only ever seen hints of before. It’s the same expression that’s in Aramis’ eyes the moment before he fires a weapon; and it makes d’Artagnan’s mouth dry and his stomach lurch, and his cock twitch in his linens.

The speed with which Aramis shifts from perfect gentleman to looking like he’s going to devour d’Artagnan whole is like quicksilver, and just as potent.

“I tried to channel all my nervousness into enthusiasm,” Aramis continues, expression softening as he looks at Constance again, his hand sliding lower to grip the back of d’Artagnan’s neck; and d’Artagnan realises belatedly that he interrupted Aramis halfway through a story. “I didn’t want them to think me ignorant, or naïve, when in fact I was both. But I needn’t have worried. All they expected from me was a willingness to learn.”

“Oh, I think d’Artagnan’s proven his willingness already,” Constance replies, her tone challenging; and d’Artagnan feels his face flushing, followed by a shudder as Aramis’ fingers brush appreciatively across the nape of his neck. “And I reckon it’s time for him to show you what he’s learned.”

Her fingers squeeze d’Artagnan’s in a wordless question; and it’s barely a moment before he squeezes back.

He realises that Aramis is looking at him again, eyes searching d’Artagnan’s face; and it seems he finds whatever it is he’s looking for, as he smiles faintly, hand squeezing d’Artagnan’s neck. “Alright, d’Artagnan. If it’s acceptable to you, then I’m just going to do whatever Constance tells me to this evening, unless you explicitly say otherwise?”

“Yes,” d’Artagnan manages, desire running through him like a fever as the full meaning of Aramis’ words sinks in.

“Perfect,” Aramis replies, before brushing a light kiss over each of their lips in turn. “Now, I believe the lady asked me to assess your progress in the art of giving pleasure. So why don’t you show me what you know?”

As Aramis drops his hand, pulling off his boots before shuffling back onto the mattress to give them both space, d’Artagnan’s neck feels suddenly bare without the steady pressure there; but Constance is turning to him almost immediately, her expression caught somewhere between nervousness and determination, and d’Artagnan resolves to forget Aramis entirely for the moment as he moves his hands to her waist and bends his head to kiss her.

His eyes fall closed at the familiar sensation of her mouth against his, the practiced way they move together, and he feels rather than hears Constance sighing against his lips as the mattress shifts again, one larger hand coming to rest atop his own on Constance’s waist. Blinking his eyes open, d’Artagnan sees Aramis’ other hand trailing down Constance’s neck, touch feather-light, as he kneels behind her, knees bracketing her hips; present, involved, but not interfering, and d’Artagnan closes his eyes again and deepens their kiss, caressing her tongue with his, starting to stoke her inner fire.

From the breathy moan Constance lets out as d’Artagnan kisses his way down her neck and laps at the hollow of her collarbone, from the way she pushes his doublet from his shoulders and lets it slide to the floor as her hands fist in his shirtfront, holding him close – well, he thinks it’s working.

He explores her exposed skin with his mouth, dropping kisses all over her shoulders, her throat, her décolleté, mindful to take his time; and he’s pushed the neck of her shift right down to where it meets the top of her stays and is mouthing at the swell of her breasts when Aramis says, voice rich as syrup, “Now, Constance, have you thought about where you’re going to want to put him? On his knees on the floor, perhaps, head buried beneath your skirts? That’s always been a favourite of mine. Or you could lie back and just let him come to you. Or even kneel above his face and lower yourself onto him, have him entirely at your mercy?”

“Lie back, I think,” d’Artagnan hears Constance reply unsteadily; meanwhile his cock’s pulsing insistently between his legs as he imagines everything in turn, images shifting in his mind’s eye as he licks his lips in sudden anticipation.

“You can lean back against me,” Aramis replies, shifting back to lean against the pillows piled up against the headboard, patting the space between his spread legs; and after a nervous glance at d’Artagnan Constance pushes herself back to rest against Aramis’ chest, his arms wrapping around her waist as he places a kiss to her hair.

Lust spikes anew in d’Artagnan at the sight of them together, his head near-swimming with desire, imagining Aramis holding Constance in place as he puts his mouth on her; and while he’s still nervous his lust is starting to overcome his apprehension for the first time, and he can feel in his very bones just how much he wants this.

He crawls over to kiss them both again, Constance then Aramis, and back to Constance again as he starts to let his hands and mouth roam more freely, smoothing his hands along her arms and shoulders and bunching the fabric of her skirts in his fists; his hands coming finally to the fastenings of her bodice, undoing the bows and working the lacing loose, first one side then the other as Aramis helps him remove it entirely, setting the stiff fabric out of the way on the other side of the bed.

“I’d better not be the only one getting undressed,” Constance points out, with a significant glance between the two of them, still in shirt and breeches; and d’Artagnan and Aramis both shift to remove their breeches, the careless manner in which Aramis throws his own breeches in the direction of the floor completely at odds with the care he took with Constance’s bodice. As Aramis draws Constance back against his chest, d’Artagnan strips off his shirt as well, deciding that the billowing fabric will only get in his way; and as he pulls the shirt over his head it’s to find both of their eyes on him as Aramis reaches up into Constance’s hair, carefully removing the pins keeping it in place one by one.

D’Artagnan purses his lips, trying to suppress the sudden spike of jealousy he feels at the sight of Aramis doing something for Constance that he’s never been allowed to more than once – not since he was a bit too hasty and managed to remove a clump of hair along with the pin.

Still, it’s not like that was Aramis’ fault, he reminds himself as Constance’s eyes meet his – his feelings clear on his face, he’s sure. It’s not about Aramis at all, really, but about him; and about something he should have learned to do properly and hasn’t, that he didn’t even realise was important until now.

“Before you can learn how to take a lady’s hair down without running the risk of doing her an injury, you have to learn how to put it up first,” Aramis says; and d’Artagnan startles a little, embarrassed by the realisation that Aramis seems to have read him as clearly as Constance has. “I’d be happy to show you later on.”

“I’d like that,” d’Artagnan replies, forcing himself to swallow the last bit of lingering resentment and instead be grateful for what he’s being offered; and Aramis smiles back at him, expression rapidly turning playful.

“But for now, I think you’ve got enough to be getting on with.”

“Right,” d’Artagnan replies awkwardly, shifting forward again so he’s facing the two of them, resting his hands on Constance’s knees where they’re pulled up to her chest; and he stalls for a moment, looking at the red of her skirts and trying to calm his racing heart.

As he hesitates, a smaller, cooler hand rests on top of his own left hand, and a larger, warmer one on top of his right.

When he looks up again, it’s to see that Constance’s face is flushed, her lips slightly parted and chest heaving; and when she murmurs, “Kiss me,” d’Artagnan is already leaning in to press his mouth to hers, hard and messy as his fingers clutch at her shoulder, trying to transmute all of his nervousness into passion.

“Easy, easy,” Aramis chides gently; and d’Artagnan realises his kisses are turning frantic, forces himself to stop and take a breath. “Remember what I told you about rushing things, hmm?”

“You should remind him,” Constance replies, voice dark with lust – and d’Artagnan stares at her in faint shock, as he realises that what he’d taken for nervousness on her part was actually almost entirely arousal. “I think he needs to hear it again.”

D’Artagnan nods hurriedly, no longer worrying what anybody will think of him; they all know what they’re here for, and he’s determined to let the last of his anxiousness go and just do this.

With that in mind, he leans in to kiss Constance once again, safe in the knowledge that Aramis will guide him through.

“ _Slowly_ this time,” Aramis instructs as d’Artagnan coaxes Constance’s mouth open once more with lips and tongue, his thumb stroking over d’Artagnan’s pulse point where he braces himself against the mattress; and d’Artagnan lets himself drift, lets the warm haze of lust overtake him, tethered by the sound of Aramis’ voice as he tells him to listen to the shallowness of Constance’s breathing, the moans when d’Artagnan kisses below her ear, the sensitive line of her neck, that she’s ready for something more, for d’Artagnan to reach up and touch her breast – and the sudden moan as he palms her through the thin linen of her shift rushes straight to his cock.

They shift position, d’Artagnan pushing her legs down either side of him so he can lean forward and take her breast into his mouth, sucking through the fabric as he rolls the other nipple in his palm; and he can sense Aramis leaning forward to rest his head on Constance’s shoulder to watch him, murmuring, “That’s good, just listen to how she’s responding to you. Can she come from just this, do you know? Some women can, if they’re sensitive enough there.”

“Don’t know,” d’Artagnan mumbles around her nipple; not sure whether his mouth’s just dry from the fabric or from the thought of bringing Constance to climax just like this, without even touching her sex.

“It’s something to try,” Aramis replies, one of his hands coming up from Constance’s waist to thumb d’Artagnan’s lip – and Constance starts as he brushes the wet spot on the fabric with the back of his hand, deliberately or not d’Artagnan can’t tell, but it sends a thrill right through him. “Next time, that is. For now, you already have your instructions.”

With just the lightest pressure from Aramis’ hand against his head, d’Artagnan moves his mouth back to Constance’s nipple, sucking and caressing, teasing with fingers and tongue. Out of the corner of his eye he sees Aramis’ hands have come up from Constance’s waist to caress her neck and shoulders as d’Artagnan plays with her breasts, focusing diligently on his task until he feels another hand at his head – Constance’s this time, pushing firmly.

“Put your mouth on me,” she commands; and d’Artagnan almost groans aloud at the sudden rush to his cock as he slides down the bed, lifting Constance’s legs once more so they’re spread, pressed almost to her chest, feet braced against the mattress as he pushes his hands under her skirts, running them up to her thighs.

As d’Artagnan gathers her skirts in his arms and slowly inches them up to her waist, his gaze is caught by Aramis’ hands as he rests them lightly over Constance’s breasts, still above her shift. “You’ll tell me if I’m taking liberties, madame,” he says softly, between kisses to her neck and jaw. “I wouldn’t wish to overstep my bounds.”

“Not at all,” Constance replies, her voice turning strained and breathy as one of Aramis’ hands increases in pressure, cupping the breast beneath. “Just don’t lose sight of your pupil.”

“Oh, I’m keeping an eye on him, don’t worry. His performance so far is exemplary,” d’Artagnan hears Aramis say; and ducks his head quickly, pushing Constance’s skirts up to her hip so he can kiss and mouth at her inner thighs, the scent of her arousal washing over him in a sudden wave.

He covers her thighs with kisses, messy ones with swipes and swirls of his tongue between parted lips until he feels the pressure of her hand against his head once more; only then does he move in to part her folds with his fingers, placing a delicate kiss against the soft flesh beneath.

“ _Ohh!_ ” Constance groans above him, hand tangling in his hair, holding him firmly in place.

“That’s it,” Aramis agrees, his tone warm and appreciative. “My, he’s a fast learner, this one. So attentive, so _eager_. I can see why you like him.”

“How could anyone not, if they saw him like this?” Constance agrees; and the way they’re talking about him as if he’s not worth addressing directly, as if his only role here is to give pleasure does something strange to d’Artagnan’s insides, delicious humiliation running hot through him as he mouths carefully at Constance’s bud, making her cry out and jerk against him – and it’s a surprise when a sudden, sharp tug on his hair draws him backwards, away from her sex.

“It’s… too much,” Constance gasps, her expression confused and guilty. “I’m not sure exactly, I just couldn’t…”

D’Artagnan’s just opening his mouth to protest that he’s only done exactly what he always does when Aramis gets there first. “It’s alright, Constance,” he reassures, arms wrapping round her waist again, “this happens sometimes. When a lady’s more aroused than usual then she becomes more sensitive too, and her lover’s usual touch can overload her senses entirely. D’Artagnan just needs to tread a bit more lightly, that’s all.”

“No, I –”

Constance visibly hesitates; then sets her jaw, determined. “I was just thinking, here I am,” she says, “expecting you to teach d’Artagnan all this… when I haven’t even checked your credentials as a teacher.”

For a second Aramis just stares at her, and d’Artagnan realises with a strange pride that she’s genuinely managed to surprise him, for the first time tonight – before he recovers, his expression forming one of the widest grins d’Artagnan has ever seen. “Are you suggesting that I demonstrate my own skills first, to make sure they’re fully to your satisfaction?”

Constance colours, but holds Aramis’ gaze; and he beams at her as if she’s just given him a precious gift. “That’s quite sensible, my dear.” He puts his mouth right by her ear, and practically purrs, “A woman as aroused as you are right now definitely requires the attentions of an expert.”

D’Artagnan has to bite his lip and dig his nails into his palms to resist the urge to touch himself, his cock aching for attention.

Aramis meanwhile has moved himself out from behind Constance and encouraged her back to lie against the pillows, capturing her lips in a deep, appreciative kiss as he pulls the neckline of her shift down to her waist, taking her bared breast in his hand and kneading gently.

He leans back then to strip off his shirt; and d’Artagnan can’t help watching hungrily as the warm brown skin of Aramis’ torso is revealed to his gaze. He’s seen it all before, of course, but he’s never really _looked_ , never imagined he might want to; and now he doubts he could ever be content with just looking again.

As he drops his discarded shirt to one side, d’Artagnan moves up into Aramis’ arms, kissing him appreciatively. Aramis’ embrace is warm and strong, and his lips are just as skilled the second time as the first; and d’Artagnan doesn’t realise until Aramis starts licking over the edges of his lips that he’s tasting Constance there.

“I’ve taught you better than to neglect a lady,” Aramis chides after a few moments, hands moving back to grip d’Artagnan’s arms; and he turns back to Constance, who’s pulled her shift back up to cover herself.

“I was getting cold,” she explains; and Aramis smiles.

“Then d’Artagnan and I will make sure we keep you warm between us.”

There isn’t room for both of them between Constance’s legs, so d’Artagnan ends up curled up against her side, head resting on her stomach so that he can watch as Aramis parts her folds with his two fingers – though by pressing them against the outside, not from inside as d’Artagnan had – and leaning forward, just blows a careful breath of warm air across her bud.

“Ooh!” Constance twitches, giggling a little. “That’s weird.”

Aramis raises an eyebrow – the extent of his self-possession even when he’s between Constance’s legs far more attractive than it has any right to be, d’Artagnan decides. “Good weird?”

“Hmm… do it again.”

Aramis leans in and blows across her again, before dropping his head a little lower to kiss lightly with his lips, farther back towards Constance’s entrance, no tongue at all that d’Artagnan can see, slowly working his way around and up.

“Like this,” he murmurs against Constance’s folds; and it’s working, d’Artagnan can tell as much, as he feels her stomach tighten beneath his hand and watches her push her hips shamelessly up against Aramis’ mouth – which he’s ready for, of course, darting out of her reach every time she tries to increase the pressure; and Aramis uses those moments to look calmly over at d’Artagnan and say, “See how once she’s started to get used to it, she wants more already? But don’t let her have it easily. Make her take it from you.”

At that, Constance gives a wordless noise of frustration, reaching down between her legs – nearly hitting d’Artagnan in the face with her hand – and grabbing the back of Aramis’ head, pushing his face forcefully against her sex.

“There we go,” Aramis mumbles, still audibly, and as d’Artagnan pushes himself up on one elbow and cranes his neck to get a better view, he can see that Aramis is starting to use his tongue, lapping at her like a cat drinking from a pool.

Constance’s moans are starting to come regularly now, and d’Artagnan leans up to kiss her deeply. “Alright?” he asks.

“God, yes,” she replies breathily – before shoving at his head with her other hand. “Now get back to your lesson.”

Between her legs, Aramis’ hand is reaching back for Constance’s where it’s still tangled in his hair, encouraging her to tug at the strands like she does to d’Artagnan – and emboldened, d’Artagnan reaches out too to caress the short whorls curling at the nape of Aramis’ neck, not yet grown long and normally hidden by his collar, that he noticed that day on the royal terrace, when all this started.

“D’Artagnan, touch her breasts,” Aramis instructs, his voice muffled against Constance’s sex; and d’Artagnan complies, moving his left hand where it’s joined with Constance’s to her breast, encouraging her to squeeze herself as he rolls her nipple between thumb and finger, his other hand staying resting against Aramis’ neck.

He can feel her getting close, and hear it; and he pulls Aramis’ hair lightly in warning, though he’s sure he already knows.

Just as Constance comes, Aramis pushes his fingers inside her for the first time – two of them, in one fluid motion; and d’Artagnan moves himself up her body to kiss her as she gasps her release against his lips, crying out almost as if she’s in pain; on and on, trailing off and then building to another peak, jerking and gasping, until she starts panting, “Enough, enough.”

“Stop him,” d’Artagnan reminds her, and she pulls Aramis forcefully away by his hair – and d’Artagnan looks down, suddenly breathless with desire at the sight of Aramis rising up from between Constance’s legs, eyes unfocused with desire and face glistening with Constance’s essence.

Rising up to his knees, he leans over to kiss and lick Aramis’ face clean without a second thought.

What d’Artagnan doesn’t expect is for Aramis to pull back, looking uncommonly pleased, and press his two fingers against d’Artagnan’s mouth as well; and d’Artagnan opens up obediently for him, licking Aramis’ fingers clean as he imagines he would lick his cock, were he given the chance.

“Enough?” Aramis asks, looking over at Constance.

“I think it’s d’Artagnan’s turn again,” Constance replies with a slow, lazy smile, everything that was tense now thoroughly relaxed. “I want to see what he’s learnt from watching the master at work.”

This time Aramis lies against Constance’s side as d’Artagnan positions himself between her legs – where Aramis’ face has just been, he thinks, the idea making his cock twitch again, clamouring for attention. He’s fully hard already from listening to Constance come, and the temptation to rut against the bedsheets is a low buzz in the back of his mind, though he wouldn’t want to waste his orgasm on something so base tonight; and he shifts deliberately onto his knees, making it impossible.

“Mmm, that’s much better,” he hears Constance say as his lips meet her sex once more; gently circling, the way he saw Aramis do. “He _is_ a fast learner” – and it’s only then that d'Artagnan realises Constance is talking to Aramis and not to him at all, and looks up to see his arm wrapped around her and their foreheads pressed together, a _tableau vivant_ of the perfect lovers, Constance moaning into the inches between their mouths.

For a moment it hurts, in a way he can’t quite articulate: d’Artagnan wants to be both of them at once, wants to be _with_ them; and then they both turn and reach for him as if they’d heard his distress, d’Artagnan pressing his face against both their hands like a contented cat before kissing up and over Constance’s bud, and delighting in the groan it wrings from deep inside her.

“He’s a natural, isn’t he?” Aramis remarks, though this time his eyes meet d’Artagnan’s over the slight swell of Constance’s belly. “Just give it a few more months, until you’ve got him fully trained. You’ll be the most satisfied woman in all of Paris.”

“Even luckier than your women?” Constance teases, pushing d’Artagnan’s head more firmly down against her sex; though he still hears Aramis’ laughter as he closes his eyes, concentrating on learning her with nothing but his lips.

“Such devotion to a single woman is an attribute all his own,” Aramis replies, in a tone that d’Artagnan can’t quite interpret; but he forgets it quickly as he hears Constance’s moans getting harder and faster again, feels her hand twist and tangle in his hair, and in the end he doesn’t even need to use his tongue to make her come, just sucks ever so lightly on her bud as his thumbs press into the hollows of her hipbones, and above him, Aramis kisses the moans from her lips.

Constance has barely come down from her peak before d’Artagnan’s already climbing back up her body into both their waiting arms, kissing Constance and Aramis in turn and holding them close, his own arousal briefly forgotten at the sight of their two smiling faces, the satisfaction there.

Of course, he remembers pretty quickly when he shifts his weight and his hard cock brushes Constance’s hipbone, making him groan aloud as she smiles against his lips. “I think you’ve earned some pleasure of your own,” she teases; and suddenly that’s all the encouragement d’Artagnan needs, his hand dropping between his legs to undo the laces at his crotch.

He’s stopped short by a hand to the wrist; and he looks over at Aramis’, whose expression is suddenly careful again. “Constance, may I?” he asks; though his gaze remains firmly on d’Artagnan, whose breath sticks in his throat, and he half-thinks he’s either going to cry or come on the spot as Constance answers:

“Please, be my guest. Though are you sure you wouldn’t rather make him earn it first?”

“Right now, my lady, this is exactly what I desire,” Aramis replies honestly, raising his eyebrows in a question; and d’Artagnan isn’t sure if Aramis is waiting for his permission as well, can barely think through the arousal clouding his mind, but he nods anyway as Aramis’ hand lets go of his wrist and reaches down to cup him lightly, d’Artagnan’s eyes falling shut in pleasure as he lets out an anguished noise that’s somewhere between a gasp and a groan, sinking down to rest his head against Constance’s shoulder.

“Keep your arse in the air and your legs spread,” Aramis instructs, as he unlaces d’Artagnan’s linens and reaches inside. “You want this, then don’t make it difficult for me.”

Aramis’ hand on him is both warmer and larger than d’Artagnan’s ever felt, and his grip is exactly firm enough, though d’Artagnan half-suspects that _anything_ would feel amazing given how wound-up he is already. “Make sure you pay good attention,” Aramis murmurs, turning his head to look d’Artagnan in the eye, “there’ll be a test on this too.”

Momentarily overwhelmed by the promise in Aramis’ words, d’Artagnan buries his face in Constance’s shoulder; and Aramis asks mock-innocently, “Too much?” as he brushes his thumb over the tip of d’Artagnan’s cock, making him groan and buck his hips.

“Not at all,” Constance replies for him, her tone heavy with amusement. “That’s what he likes, being taught.”

“Oh, I’ve noticed,” Aramis replies, squeezing the base of d’Artagnan’s cock until he groans again. “He’s such a good little learner, isn’t he? So willing. I do hope you’ll let me borrow him from time to time, Constance, I’ve got so many things still to teach him.”

The bottom drops suddenly out of d’Artagnan’s stomach at that; but he barely has time to process it fully, before Aramis is speaking again: “But for now, d’Artagnan, what I want is for you to make yourself come. You’re going to fuck my fist, and I’m going to watch your face while you do it.”

D’Artagnan lifts his head to kiss Aramis, artless and needy, half-expecting his technique to be corrected; but Aramis kisses him back just as passionately, and it takes d’Artagnan some time to realise his kisses are being gently sculpted into something softer and less frantic as his hips start to push forward and down, fucking his cock through Aramis’ fist as if of their own accord.

When he feels the now-familiar tug at his hair it’s to move his mouth from Aramis’ to Constance’s, and she’s the one he kisses as he shudders and comes, mouth open on a silent groan.

As Constance releases his mouth Aramis brings two fingers to d’Artagnan’s lips once more, this time coated in his own come; and _in for a sou_ , he decides as he curls his tongue around the pads, drawing them into his mouth and licking them thoroughly clean.

“You’re awfully keen to show me how good you are with your tongue tonight,” Aramis purrs, his eyes fixed as intently on d’Artagnan’s fingers as if he’s looking down a musket barrel. “Anyone would think there’s something else you want me to put in your mouth.”

Unable to find the words for just how much that’s exactly what he wants, d’Artagnan looks pleadingly at Constance, who smirks back at him with heavy-lidded eyes. “Your secret’s out, dear husband,” she replies, drawing out the words, savouring every one of them as they roll across her tongue. “Better get on your knees.”

With Constance’s blessing it’s easy to do as he’s told; and d’Artagnan gets himself into position, tucking himself awkwardly back into his smallclothes as Aramis kneels up in front of him, bringing his hips level with d’Artagnan’s chest. The bulge of his erection is all too noticeable under his linens, and d’Artagnan swallows, the mixture of apprehension and lust making his mouth water uncontrollably.

“You’ve not done this before, have you?” Aramis asks, hand reaching out to cup d’Artagnan’s jaw as he shakes his head wordlessly; and senses Constance getting up to sit beside him, one of her hands curling into his in silent support. “You’ll do just fine, I’m sure. Keep your lips covering your teeth, and you can’t really go wrong. Would you like me to talk you through it?”

“Please,” d’Artagnan manages, holding onto Constance’s hand with an iron grip. After everything they’ve done together this evening he shouldn’t be nervous all over again, it’s ridiculous really – but there’s something unnerving about being almost at eye-level with Aramis’ crotch, and he has half-formed visions of being choked, although really he trusts Aramis not to do anything of the kind.

He watches, mesmerised by the movement of Aramis’ fingers as he undoes the laces as his crotch and pulls them loose, before reaching inside the fly there and drawing out his cock, which is a dusky brown a shade darker than the skin of his hand. It’s a good size, d’Artagnan decides, and not too intimidating – he won’t be worrying about straining his jaw, at least – and looks to be already fully hard.

Aramis still palms himself lazily for a few strokes, d’Artagnan’s attention caught and held by the movement of skin over flesh, close-up; before he grips himself firmly at the base and points his erection towards d’Artagnan’s mouth, the other hand reaching out and weaving into d’Artagnan’s hair, encouraging his head gently forward. “Just a little kiss to start,” he breathes, “right on the tip.”

D’Artagnan takes a fortifying breath, before letting his head be guided down and placing a careful kiss on the exposed head of Aramis’ cock, hearing him sigh just a little in pleasure as the fingers tighten in his hair, scratching gently at his scalp.

Suddenly, he feels like he might just be able to do this.

“There, that’s it,” Aramis encourages, putting one hand behind him to brace himself against the headboard. “Now another. Then kiss your way down to my hand… yes, just like that… now back up. Slowly start to use your tongue a little,” he instructs, leading d’Artagnan gradually back and forth by the hair as he moves his lips along Aramis’ shaft, letting his kisses become wet and sloppy, tongue coming out to lap at the underside of Aramis’ cock, resting warm and heavy against his lips.

“Mmm… exactly like that,” Aramis murmurs appreciatively, tucking d’Artagnan’s hair behind his ears, first one side and then the other, before moving his hand to the back of d’Artagnan’s head again. “Caress me with your lips, get me nice and slick all over. You’re making it easier for yourself, for when you take it in your mouth. Yes, that’s just right. Constance, I hope you’re getting this too.”

“I’m taking notes,” Constance replies, dry as dust, her hand squeezing d’Artagnan’s once more.

Aramis chuckles. “Now, d’Artagnan, you’re going to wet your lips, and take just the head of my cock into your mouth, keep your lips over your front teeth, and then look up at me.”

D’Artagnan isn’t sure why he needs to look up until he does it, meets Aramis’ eyes and realises Aramis is looking down and seeing him, holding Aramis’ gaze with his lips stretched round the head of his cock; and he feels his own cock twitch anew in his smallclothes as he reaches out to curl his free hand around the back of Aramis’ thigh, suddenly needing to hold onto him as well.

“Beautiful,” Aramis murmurs, looking down at d’Artagnan as if he’s something precious. “Don’t you think, Constance?”

“You two together are quite the sight,” Constance replies, her voice a little unsteady; _this is hard for her_ , d’Artagnan realises, and he strokes his thumb across her knuckles as he swipes the flat of his tongue across the tip of Aramis’ cock where it’s still in his mouth, gratified when he sees a little stutter of breath escape him. “I’d never have imagined I might like such a thing.”

“Oh, you’re by no means the only one,” Aramis smiles. “D’Artagnan, start to slide your mouth slowly forward – mm, yes. Back and forth, just like that. Keep that up.” As d’Artagnan bends his head forward to concentrate on taking Aramis’ shaft deeper into his mouth, sliding it between his lips, he hears him continue: “I’ve known other women who liked to watch their husbands with a male lover. My first patroness was the same. She’d sit behind me, where you are now, and tell me exactly what she wanted me to do to him.”

“Maybe that’s something for next time,” Constance says lightly; and d’Artagnan isn’t sure if it’s his imagination, or Aramis’ hand caresses his head just a little more firmly.

“I look forward to it,” he replies. “Now d’Artagnan, I’m going to start guiding your head. Follow my lead, and take my cock a little further in each time, but don’t push yourself beyond what you can manage comfortably.”

D’Artagnan lets his eyes fall closed, feeling Aramis’ cock push through the ring of his lips as he lets Aramis’ hand push him forward, stopping just before he feels the tip touch the back of his throat; and Aramis is as good as his word, feeling d’Artagnan’s resistance immediately and tugging at his hair, encouraging him to slide his lips back up to the head; then down, then up, until they fall into a steady rhythm together.

“Oh, that’s so good. Just a little more suction,” Aramis instructs; and d’Artagnan hollows his cheeks obediently, feeling an appreciative tug on his hair. “Mm, that’s perfect, keep going just like that. Rub your tongue a little along the underside as you go… oh, you’re just lovely, aren’t you?”

D’Artagnan slides his mouth obediently back and forth, keeping to the pace of Aramis’ hand as he tentatively allows himself to consider just how much he loves this: the hot weight of Aramis hard in his mouth, learning his cock as it moves back and forth between his lips. Constance’s hand still shifting in his lap, squeezing his fingers and keeping him tethered as Aramis speeds up the pace of the hand on his head, no longer letting him come up quite so far; and d’Artagnan’s just starting to get a little giddy from the lack of air when he’s held firmly in place as Aramis commands, “Swallow,” and d’Artagnan only has a moment for his brain to catch up before Aramis is coming hot against the back of his throat, and d’Artagnan swallows his seed down without hesitation.

When Aramis lets his head loose and slides his cock from his mouth, d’Artagnan’s too busy sucking in air to make sense of much, or to notice Aramis sinking down onto his knees before him until he’s taking d’Artagnan’s face in his hands and kissing him slow and sweet, nipping a little at d’Artagnan’s lower lip before leaning over his shoulder to kiss Constance too, his other hand a comforting pressure at d’Artagnan’s waist.

“How are you both?”

“…wow,” is all d’Artagnan can manage, his thoughts still misfiring halfway to completion; and Aramis chuckles, and kisses him again.

“Good. Very good,” Constance replies, wrapping her arms around d’Artagnan’s waist; and sounding significantly more together than he does, he notes wryly. “I believe we owe you our gratitude.”

“Oh, the pleasure’s mine. Truly,” Aramis replies, with a warm, broad grin that makes the edges of his moustache lift and the corners of his eyes crinkle in a way that d’Artagnan finally realises has been capturing his attention since long before this started; possibly since he could first call Aramis a friend.

In fact, he’s so busy looking that he’s surprised when Aramis gets abruptly to his feet beside the bed, rearranging himself and re-lacing his smallclothes. “Well. I should bid you good evening.”

D’Artagnan turns with an appealing look to Constance; but she’s already saying, “Aramis. For God’s sake, sit back down.”

As he perches on the edge of the mattress again, she reaches out to take his hand in hers. “Do you really think we wouldn’t want you to stay?”

Aramis smiles, but there’s something wistful in it. “I wouldn’t wish to presume upon your hospitality. And three people’s a lot in one bed.”

“Two of whom are soldiers,” d’Artagnan objects immediately, “and I know for a fact that you can sleep anywhere. Besides. We _want_ you to stay.”

“Alright.” This time Aramis’ smile reaches in his eyes. “Just tell me where you’d like me.”

The answer to that question, as it turns out, is pressed up against d’Artagnan’s back, legs tangling with his, pressing lazy kisses to d’Artagnan’s neck and shoulder as he peppers kisses all over Constance’s face where she lies facing him, Aramis’ hand resting over d’Artagnan’s on Constance’s hip.

The candle is out, the room pitch-dark, and all its occupants have fallen silent, though not yet sleeping; but d’Artagnan knows instinctively that there’s nothing that needs to be said. While he’s sure there’s plenty more yet to learn, at this moment he has everything his heart desires – and as he drifts off into a contented sleep, he decides that for now, that’s all he needs to know.


End file.
